And Then There Was One
by heartcat
Summary: Accident? Or murder? And how will a seemingly isolated incident portend for one of the major characters? A novelist follows CSI through it's paces, learning about the world of forensic science, and becomes a catalyst for romance and selfdiscovery. NEW cha
1. Default Chapter

_My first submission and first attempt at CSI fan fiction. Usual disclaimers. I may take a few liberties with timelines, minor details or minor characters, but will attempt to preserve the integrity of the main characters. The team is still together in this version. Main characters will be the focus though they appear only briefly in the initial few chapters. Thanks for reading._

Denny Martens winked at the pretty blonde behind the counter, taking the cardboard cup that contained his customary double double, and the small paper bag that held his glazed donut. He stopped by this small shop every day on his way to work, where he picked up his morning coffee and flirted harmlessly with the lovely Carina. He would never cheat on Amy, but it was always a boost to his middle-aged ego to engage the young woman in the light innuendo of their friendly banter that had evolved over the past two years.

Denny wasn't on his way to work this morning. He'd enjoyed the luxury of sleeping later than usual, then loaded up his clubs and dropped his teenage son, Christian, off at the highschool before swinging by for a cup of java. He had a ten o'clock tee time at one of the public golf courses, and was meeting Amy's brother Glen there. Denny had been working hard lately, and he needed this day to relax and recoup from the demands of the job. Both the physical and the mental.

"I hope you get a hole in one!" Carina called merrily, flashing him a smile that must have put some orthodontist's kid through at least one semester of college.

"Thanks, Gorgeous," Denny grinned back at her, laughing lightly at the thought. He'd never even gotten an eagle, let alone an ace. "You have a good day, and I'll see you tomorrow at the usual time...bright and early." Carina was a great girl, the whole package, pretty, smart and talented. Denny knew that while she worked at the coffee shop days, she taught dance at night. She had shared with him her dream of one day getting a break as a choreographer. He didn't think there was anyone who deserved it more than this sweet, hard-working young woman.

Carina nodded. "It's a date." She prayed that he didn't hear the wistfulness in her tone.

Denny Martens was her favourite customer. He was such an incredibly nice guy, and she thought that he was very sexy, even if he was two decades older than she was and carried an extra twenty pounds. He was happily married though...she could tell by the way he spoke about his wife and his family...even if he flirted with her. Denny was totally unaware that she had a crush on him, for which Carina was grateful. Sometimes, it was frustrating how obtuse men could be. In this case, it was a blessing.

"And I'll have a fresh pot on for you," she promised. She waved to him as he sauntered out the door.

Denny blinked against the sun's glare that bounced from the chrome on the vehicles parked on the far side of the street. He paused outside the shop, juggling the coffee to his left hand, while he reached for the Ray-Bans in the left pocket of his tan, knit shirt. He slipped them onto the bridge of his nose, and then reached into his pants for the keys to the pick-up.

It was going to be a warm one. Already, coming from the cool, air-conditioned interior, Denny could feel the sweat that began to bead on his forehead. He loved living in Vegas, had spent most of his career and adult life here, but sometimes, after having grown up on the shores of Lake Michigan and with fond memories of the seasonal changes, Denny grew tired of the desert climate.

He had suggested to Amy that he take her to Hawaii next year for their twentieth anniversary. They had gone there for their honeymoon, and Denny thought his sentimental wife might appreciate returning and perhaps renewing their vows under the same tropical skies where they had begun their lives together. But Amy, intuiting that he'd had enough sunshine and sand, had suggested that an Alaskan cruise was the thing. _"Something completely different!"_ she had enthused.

He had agreed, reveling at the excitement in her blue eyes. There was nothing he wouldn't do to make her happy, no greater pleasure for him than her own. Denny loved his job, and considered himself a fortunate man to have the career he had always wanted, one that stretched and fulfilled him. But Amy and Christian...they were his world.

He was imagining standing on the deck of the cruise ship, one arm wrapped around Amy's waist, her head against his shoulder, while they stared in awe at the pristine, white glaciers and floating icebergs in the frigid Arctic currents. As Denny stepped from the curb, lost in his reverie, his usually sharp senses failed to note the gunning of the engine from the vehicle that pulled around the nearest corner and into the street.

The squeal of tires against pavement, as the big SUV accelerated towards him, caught Denny's attention, and he swung his head to the right, his mouth dropping open, stupefied, as three quarters of a ton of metal bore viciously down on him. Adrenaline surged through his system, shooting through his pores in a sour sweat.

Confused, Denny recalled the letter, locked in his safe. He'd been so sure it hadn't meant anything. Couldn't possibly mean anything. He hadn't shared it with anyone, not even Amy. On some level, it must have concerned him though, given him pause to doubt, because he'd kept it, rather than immediately dismissing and discarding it.

He stared at the chrome grill, his imagination turning it into the gaping jaws of a carnivorous beast. There wasn't even time to try to get out of the way. Denny was still clutching the cup of coffee and the paper bag when the vehicle struck.

His final thought before the brief explosion of excrutiating pain, and the nothingness that would follow, was one of poignant clarity. Denny Martens was glad that he had hugged his wife and son good bye that morning, and that he had told them both that he loved them.

Carina watched Denny through the big front window, beyond the blue checkered curtains, her brown eyes following him with unrequited longing. She wondered bittersweetly, for probably the thousandth time, what it would be like to be held in his strong embrace. She had decided long ago not to wallow in guilt about her feelings, even though Denny was attached and unattainable. Her secret fantasies weren't hurting anyone, and she would never act upon them. She had too much respect not only for Denny Martens, but for herself as well.

The young woman heard the vehicle's engine roar as it barreled down the street, quiet now that the morning's rush was over. It was background sound, one of many in the city, and she was barely conscious of it. She certainly didn't connect it with any potential danger to Denny, not until the big, dark machine was suddenly there, solid and undeniable, ramming into the older man's body. Denny's head snapped back unnaturally, and his muscular frame disappeared beneath the vehicle as though sucked into some unseen vortex. Carina stared, transfixed, as the SUV kept going, its driver not even slowing down to acknowledge the tragedy that he or she had just precipitated.

She ran from behind the counter, and flung open the shop's door, her lithe, dancer's legs now rubbery stalks that somehow carried her outside to the sidewalk. She paused, her body beginning a violent trembling, as she sought to absorb the reality of the horrific sight. Denny Martens' mangled form lay crumpled in a growing scarlet pool. Carina heard a woman's frantic screams and desolate wailing as she stood there, unable to move, wanting to go to Denny but knowing that he was beyond her help. She found it hard to reconcile that Denny Martens, so vibrantly alive just seconds ago, was dead.

It wasn't until heavyset, grey-haired Lou Ponte came out of the barber shop next door, and put his arms around her shoulders, pulling her head against his beefy chest, his perpetually garlic-tainted breath murmuring words that her shocked mind could not quite comprehend, that Carina realized dimly that the screams were emanating from deep in her own throat.


	2. And Then There Was One Ch 2

"Good morning!" The tall, dark-haired man with the receding hairline moved briskly towards the waiting woman. "I'm Conrad Ecklie. It's so nice to meet you, Miss Laval." The CSI dayshift supervisor gave an ingratiating smile, as he clasped the brunette woman's hand between both of his. "When Sheriff Mobley called and mentioned the idea of you coming, I have to say that I gave my immediate support. Please know that you'll receive my full co-operation, and that of my team." Thin lips curled around a toothy grin, as dark eyes appraised the tall, fortyish woman with intruiged speculation.

"I do a bit of writing myself," Ecklie added, leaning in conspiratorily and lowering his gaze with apparant humility. "I've published a few articles in some trade magazines, and have often considered doing a novel of my own."

Cecilia Laval smiled graciously as she extricated her hand from his clammy grasp. "That's wonderful," she replied. "Thank you so much for agreeing to assist me with my research, and for taking the time to show me around this morning. And please, call me Cecilia."

Cecilia had been playing with the sketchy outline of a novel featuring a forensic scientist as the protagonist, for a couple of years now. The idea had continued to germinate while she had written her last book, and was a natural evolution for her genre of popular suspense/thriller fiction. Her first two novels had sat gathering dust on bookstore shelves, despite receiving decent reviews. But her last one, Winning Ticket, had just edged it's way onto the New York Times bestseller list.

She was hardly a household name, but there were enough people who had purchased Ticket, to justify it's reprinting in paperback. This past summer, on vacation in Hilton Head Island, as Cecilia had taken a solitary stroll along the shoreline, she had been thrilled to note a fellow vacationer lounging on a beach towel, immersed in a copy of her book. That was the first time she had actually witnessed anyone who was not known to her, reading her work. Seeing her lifelong ambition come to tangible fruition like that, had been incredibly sweet.

The income she had earned from Winning Ticket, coupled with the advance she had received from her publisher for her fourth book, had allowed her the luxury of quitting her job as a highschool English teacher. Her agent, Sally Long, had been enthusiastic after reading the proposed summary of the new book, proclaiming that it's plotline was a fresh twist, and that coupled with Cecilia's talent for characterization...her greatest strength according to Sally...earmarked the novel for wide popular appeal.

The literary agent had gotten in touch with an old friend from college, Janice Kellerman, married now to Ron Kellerman, the current mayor of Las Vegas. Through this contact, Sally had arranged for Cecilia to do her research by following an actual CSI team through its assignments for the next few months. Cecilia would have the opportunity to be as close to the forensic work and the agents as was possible without risking compromising their investigations.

Plunging in, Cecilia had prepaid the rent on her townhouse in Erie, Pennsylvania, and arranged to lease a furnished apartment in Las Vegas for the next few months. She had boarded a plane, traveling to Nevada for the first time. She had no spouse, no children, and now no steady job to structure her life around, and the unaccustomed freedom had been both unnerving and exciting.

As the jet had circled the desert airport, Cecilia had realized soberly that life as she had known it for the first forty-one years of her life, was about to change. She was no longer a teacher, she had given up that security net, the seniority in her union, the pension, the comfort and familiarity of it all, to invest everything she had into pursuing her dream of being a full-time writer.

Since before she could even put pen to paper, as a little girl listening to her mother's voice open to her the incredible worlds found between the pages of a book, Cecilia had known that one day she would create such fictitious realms for others. She was looking forward to being able to throw herself into that pursuit without any distractions.

Cecilia hadn't been certain what her reception at the front desk this morning would be, and she had waited curiously, and somewhat nervously, while the secretary had called Conrad Ecklie to the lobby. She had been prepared for some resentment, imagining that the hardworking investigators might not be too thrilled with being ordered to accommodate a civilian this way, especially for an extended period of time. But Ecklie seemed eager to open his world to her, and while Cecilia found the man initially off-putting, she appreciated his interest and his willingness to assist her in her research.

Conrad had never heard of Cecilia Laval, and his first instinct when Sheriff Mobley had informed him that both the police department and the companion CSI unit would be open to the writer while she researched her new novel, had been to proclaim that he was too busy. His work was far too important, for either he or his agents to babysit some hack writer who wanted to observe the intricacies of forensic science. He had been on the verge of objecting, and insisting that either the swing or night shift deal with the woman, when it had occured to Conrad that having a contact in the publishing world might one day be beneficial to his own goals and desires.

As he had listened to the sheriff reiterate that Miss Laval was to receive the department's full respect and co-operation, as much as possible without hindering their investigations, Eckley had begun to warm to the idea. By the time the sheriff was finished outlining how much it would mean to the mayor, or more accurately the mayor's wife...everyone knew who was the head of _that_ household...Conrad had visions of his name appearing in print in the finished novel's acknowledgements. Perhaps Cecilia Laval would want to model the hero after Ecklie. Maybe even dedicate the book to him.

And what if the novel happened to be a runaway best seller? It could even be made into a screenplay. Maybe Ecklie would be called upon to be the technical advisor if the book was made into a film. His imagination had transported him to Hollywood. Conrad Ecklie had seen his name in lights, if only on his own inner eye. By the time the sheriff had finished his spiel, the day shift supervisor had been salivating over the opportunity being presented him. He was a people person he felt, and he was confident that he could work this situation to his future advantage. In Ecklie's world, everything was a possible road to personal glory.

Conrad had taken special pains with his appearance that morning. He wore a charcoal grey suit, crisp burgundy shirt and matching silk tie. He would be his charming best with the writer. She was not an unattractive woman, he noted, and in any other town she might even have been considered moderately pretty. But this was Las Vegas, full of youthful, stunning women, and Cecilia Laval wouldn't even rate a second glance here. She had to be close to forty, though her olive-toned skin was relatively smooth and unlined, and her long hair showed no traces of grey. The figure beneath the long, denim skirt and pink blouse was full, curvaceous, and indicated an enjoyment of food and a propensity towards a sedentary lifestyle. Her eyes were pretty though, Ecklie thought, as he gazed into their velvet brown depths.

"Truly, it's my pleasure," Conrad continued suavely. "Let's go up to my office and I'll show you around the lab and introduce you to my agents." He touched a hand to her elbow and guided her down the hall towards a bank of elevators.

One of the broad, brushed steel doors slid open, and a trio of two men and one woman stepped out directly into their path. Cecilia felt the fingers tighten on her skin as Conrad Ecklie pulled up abruptly. She was face to face with a distinguished man with greying hair. Beyond him stood a younger, tall, well-built, bronze-skinned man with striking green eyes, and next to him a slim, serious-looking, dark-haired woman.

"Gil," Ecklie acknowledged tersely. Cecilia glanced at the man at her side, and saw his nostrils flare disapprovingly. "Gil, this is Cecilia Laval. The writer who's going to be doing some research here for the next little while," he prompted the other man's memory. "Miss Laval, Gil is the night shift supervisor. These are two of his CSIs, Warrick Brown and Sara Sidle." There was no warmth in Ecklie's voice as he made the reluctant introductions.

Gil Grissom regarded Cecilia appraisingly with a cool, intelligent gaze. He had forgotten that there was going to be some writer trailing Ecklie and his team around, purportedly learning about 'real' forensics work, before going off to create some glamorized novel that would likely have no resemblance to the real thing at all. Gil had been surprised that Ecklie hadn't tried to stick the graveyard shift with the woman, but assumed that either the conventional hours of day shift had appealed to her, or that, just as likely, Ecklie had seen this as some other way to advance what Conrad considered a glorious career. Either way, Gil was relieved that he wouldn't have to expend the energy to deal with her.

"Miss Laval," Gil Grissom said politely.

His voice was pleasant enough, but Cecilia had the sense that the other supervisor had already assessed and dismissed her. She saw the slight curl of his pale, pink lips as his blue eyes turned to Conrad Ecklie, and she knew instinctively that Grissom would not have been quite as accommodating as the other man was being.

"Hey, Ecklie," the young, brunette woman announced, after a bored shifting of her dark eyes from the writer, "I thought you might like to know we solved that Balfour case." She was smiling smugly to herself. It was evident to Cecilia that the young woman did not have a lot of respect for Conrad Ecklie. In fact, none of the three did, and their distaste seemed to emanate in palpable waves. "It wasn't murder like you sang to the papers," she continued. "It was accidental death, just like Grissom suggested from the beginning." Her eyes, fixed on Ecklie, gleamed with triumphant pride.

Cecilia watched the man's right jaw clench as the muscles there worked convulsively, and a slight crimson stain spread up from the neckline of his shirt. "I never said it was murder," Ecklie retorted quickly. "I said that initially it appeared that the death was a murder, but that the investigation was ongoing." His eyes narrowed at the young woman. "I'm glad that the case has been solved though, Sara. Finally," he added with a drawn out sigh. "Now maybe you can start on that backlog that's been building, and day shift won't have to worry about the overflow anymore," he suggested with pointed malice.

Cecilia felt uncomfortable during the exchange. It was apparant that not only was there no personal respect between the four, but there was little professional respect either. Warrick Brown's mouth had worked at the last comment, as though he intended to say something, but after a quick look over Grissom's shoulder at the writer, he had seemed to change his mind and satisfied himself with rolling his eyes instead.

The pager clipped to Conrad Ecklie's belt sounded, and as he reached for it, his colleagues stepped around and continued past he and the novelist. "Hit and run fatality," he announced as his eyes scanned the message. He shook his head. "Off-duty cop." Ecklie raised his voice and it rang with self-importance. "Sherrif wants me to oversee this one personally." He turned to Cecilia. "Well, Cecilia," he said, his animosity towards the other three CSIs temporarily suspended, "it looks like I have work to do. Welcome to our world."


	3. And Then There Was One Ch 3

_People shouldn't die on beautiful days_, he thought to himself.

Lifting the yellow caution tape that cordoned off the upper end of the street where he had parked his car, and ducking underneath it, Jim Brass glanced over at the young officer who had been first on the scene. The man was kneeling down next to a young blonde who sat on the curb. Her shapely legs were pulled up tight to her trembling chest, her delicate arms wrapped around her bent knees. The detective knew she must be the witness.

Brass glanced at her sympathetically for a moment. Delaying the inevitable, his keen brown eyes next took in the small group that had gathered a few stores down. Local shopkeepers and their patrons, talking in hushed voices, occasionally craning their necks to get a view of the body. Probably eager to see if they'd be on the news at noon, he thought cynically. Already preparing the stories they would soon be sharing with others. The ones that started with, _"I was there..."_.

Sighing, he squared his shoulders and dropped the mental barricade that he had learned to erect to help shield himself from those situations that would otherwise twist his gut so cruelly as to make him ineffectual. The new coroner, an East Indian woman...what was her name again? Dr. Vuthoori? Jaya, maybe?...knelt next to the decimated shell that had once housed Denny Martens. Brass gritted his teeth, forcing down memories of the man that Martens had been when they had worked together.

It had been years since Brass had worked with Denny. A long time even since he'd run across him for more than a perfunctory 'hi, how's it going?'. But even beneath the blood and the destruction, he recognized the other cop. Miraculously, Denny's facial features were mostly intact. Heck, the family could probably even get away with an open casket if they wanted to, with the help of a good funeral home.

The sun glinted on the gold band that circled the ring finger of the dead man's left hand. The detective's chest tightened. His ears rang hollowly as he heard the voice from his past. _"You know Jim, as fun as this job is, I look forward to being old and grey and rubbing elbows with all those Canuck snowbirds in Florida. Me and Amy enjoying our retirement. Chris, married, visiting us with the grandkids." _Denny had given one of those easy smiles. The unmistakably genuine kind that came from that happy place that lived inside the other man.

Brass swallowed hard. There would be no peaceful retirement. No growing old with Amy. After years of successfully avoiding all of the dangers encountered on the job, it would be a stupid, senseless accident like this that claimed Denny Martens. He tried not to think of Amy Martens, or the boy. Except the boy was probably already becoming a young man, Jim realized.

"Broken neck," the coroner spoke in a crisp, lightly accented voice, with professional detachment. "Severe internal injuries, undoubtedly. My guess is he was dead before he fell and the vehicle ran over his lower extremities."

"Bastard never even stopped to see if he was still alive," the voice behind Brass growled. It was the beat cop. "He had to have felt the impact. Looks like he saw him too, at the last minute. There are skid marks," the young man nodded towards the black slashes of rubber. "Ya run a man down like a dog in the street, and just keep going? I don't get it," he continued, his voice rising with each word. "What do you think, Captain? DUI? It's pretty early."

Brass shrugged his shoulders. "Alcoholics can start the minute they get up in the morning," he stated morosely. "Assuming they ever stop during the night." He paused. "Could be high on something else. Could be panic. No license or insurance. Maybe a kid joyriding." He looked over at the blonde who was being assessed now by a paramedic. "Witness?"

"Yeah." The officer consulted his note pad. "Carina Horwath. Twenty-four. Works at Cup A Joe, the coffee shop there."

Brass nodded his thanks and moved over to where the woman still sat, a vacant look in her dark eyes. There were black smudges underneath them from her mascara, and black rivulets, stark against the unnatural grey pallor of her cheeks. Shock. He wanted to talk to her before the paramedics decided to transport her.

"Miss Horwath?" he asked softly. She didn't acknowledge him. "I'm Captain Brass, Las Vegas Police Department. I understand that you saw what happened here?" When she still didn't respond, he tugged up his pant legs a bit and crouched down next to her. Poor kid. Sympathetically, he reached to touch her shoulder. "I can imagine how upsetting this is for you. It's important though, that I get as much information now as possible, while your memory is still fresh."

The paramedic drew back to stand unobtrusively in the overhang of a barber shop.

She didn't protest that she had already answered questions, the way witnesses often did. "He hit Denny, and he just kept going," she whispered with hoarse incredulity.

Brass was instantly alert. Denny? He dropped the hand from her shoulder, resting it across his thigh. "Miss, did you know the victim?"

She swung her head towards him, the platinum strands of her hair falling across her cheek and down her shoulders. "Yeah. He comes into the shop every morning. On his way to work. He's a cop. Only he isn't working today. He's going golfing." Her eyes glinted with unshed tears.

"Yeah," Brass said sorrowfully, noting that she was speaking of Denny Martens in the present tense. "You said the driver was a male?" he prompted.

Her brow furrowed. "I...I don't know why I said that. I never saw anyone. The windows were dark. And it all happened...so fast..." her voice trailed off.

"Do you know what kind of vehicle it was? Colour? Anything that might help us find out who did this?" He gave her a moment to reply. The young cop had already taken that information from her and called all that in, but Brass wanted to see if her recollection would change.

"Um...some kind of SUV. Black, I think. Or dark blue." She clutched suddenly for his sleeved arm, her long, manicured nails digging through the thin fabric. Brass winced but didn't withdraw. "How could this happen? How could this happen to Denny? He didn't deserve this! Oh God...Denny..." She released him, burying her face in her hands, and wept.

Brass knew that it was normal for witnesses to a tragedy to react strongly to any loss of human life. If they happened to know or care for that life, their reactions were even more intense. There was nothing unusual in the way the young woman was behaving in response to the death of a man that she knew. So why was his radar going off? Why was his gut telling him that Denny Martens was more to the blonde than a daily customer?

Denny Martens had been one of the straightest, most decent men Jim Brass had ever known. When some of the guys would go out for a drink after work, Denny would usually decline. When he did join them, it was for one only. And he never accompanied then to the strip clubs, or joined in their suggestive conversations about the women they encountered in the course of their days. Martens loved his wife, truly and deeply, and was careful never to put himself in a situation where he could jeopardize that relationship. It was something that Brass had always admired about the other man.

But...people changed. It had been a long time since he'd worked with Denny, and though they had shared a healthy professional respect for one another, there had been no other common ground to lead them to stay in touch. Denny was in his mid forties, several years younger than Brass, but still not too young to have hit middle-aged-crazy. And who knew how his relationship with Amy had changed over the years? This blonde was a looker. If it _had_ happened, Martens wouldn't be the first seemingly happily married man to have tried to recapture his youth in the arms of a younger woman. And Jim Brass was the last person to judge another man on his fidelity.

Now was not the time for such questions though. Brass could find out easily enough if the two had been having an affair. Right now, he had to concentrate on the immediacy of the accident.

"Miss Horwath," he continued, when she raised her head again, "did you recognize the vehicle? Seen it around here before? Get a license plate number? Even a partial?" Brass knew it was a long shot. Even Warrick Brown, back in his day, wouldn't play those odds.

She shook her head. "It was just an SUV. You see them everywhere." She wiped the back of her right hand across her sculpted cheekbones. He was relieved to see some colour returning to her pretty countenance.

"Did Detective Martens move out into the street quickly or suddenly?" Brass queried. It was important to determine whether or not the driver had been negligent or if the pedestrian had. Even though, either way, it was a crime to leave the scene. "Maybe the driver didn't see him til it was too late, before he tried to slam on the brakes?"

The sorrow in her dark eyes turned glacial. "There's no parking on this side of the street. Denny was crossing at a normal pace, to get to his truck."

Brass filed away the fact that she was familiar with the kind of vehicle Martens drove. There were 'No Parking' signs on this side of the street, and no vehicles here now, but he had to make sure that the scene had been the same at the time of the fatality. That there hadn't been some delivery truck idling there, that Denny Martens had stepped out from behind without checking the road.

Carina Horwath's voice turned cold, and he sensed the underlying fury. "The guy had to have a clear view of Denny, if he was paying attention at all. And he never even slowed."

Brass titled his head curiously. The young cop had said there were skid marks to confirm that the driver had tried to stop. Apparantly, the witness's reliability was questionable. "You say the driver didn't brake?" he repeated.

She shook her head vehemently. "No. It...it was almost like...like he sped up..."

Brass swivelled his head back to the road. He had to see those marks for himself. Had the driver tried to stop? Or had he or she accelerated? He wondered when CSI would arrive at the scene. Then he saw Conrad Ecklie and an unfamiliar woman bending under the police tape at the lower end of the street. Involuntarily, his nose wrinkled with distaste. Jim reminded himself that even though Ecklie could be a dick, the man was, for the most part, a capable forensic scientist.

He had his own job to concentrate on. Was this a random accident? Or the calculated actions of a killer? If Martens and the girl were having an affair...could the driver have been a jealous boyfriend? Or even Amy Martens in a rage over her husband's indiscretion? There was already an APB out on the vehicle, and local body shops had been alerted to call in any possible related or suspicious damage to all SUVs or mini-vans that came in. Back at the precinct someone was checking for reports of stolen vehicles.

"Miss Horwath, where were you when you witnessed the accident?" Jim Brass wondered.

She jerked her delicate chin over her shoulder. "Inside. At the register. Looking out the window."

The detective looked towards the small shop, wondering just how clear the view was. Knowing that his next step would be to go inside and determine the answer. "Thank you, you've been very helpful. I can understand how distressing this is for you."

Brass stood up, shook the kinks out of his legs, and stepped over to the paramedic. "She seems okay now. Are you taking her in?" he asked quietly.

"Not unless she asks to go," the other man told him.

The detective nodded his satisfaction. He moved towards the coffee shop door, then paused, and in an unconsciously Columboesque move, turned back to the young woman. "Miss Horwath?" She shifted on the curb, turning her face towards him. "How long had you had a relationship with Denny Martens?"

His features projected only an idle curiosity, but his brown eyes were cutting. He watched as she tried to process the meaning in the strangely worded inquiry. Brass was rewarded when she averted her eyes for a moment, and two spots of colour appeared high on her cheeks. Her body language and hesitation told him far more than even her halting verbal response.

"We...he...he's been coming here for about two years now." She raised her eyes to his again, trying to read the weathered visage.

"Okay," he said simply, with a thin smile. "Thanks." Then Jim Brass stepped inside the building, wondering to himself what kind of vehicle Amy Martens drove.


	4. And Then There Was One Ch 4

Cecilia ducked under the yellow police tape, her stomache in knots, feeling a guilty, voyeuristic flash. When Conrad Ecklie had suggested she accompany him to the crime scene, she had been eager for the opportunity to observe him at work. She had followed him to the Denali in the lot, and listened as he explained some of the steps that were being taken to secure the scene and prepare for the arrival of forensics. He had chattered non-stop during the short drive, and Cecilia had been unable to analyze her feelings about what was occuring.

But now that she was actually on the scene, and the yellow tape had brushed against her skin, now that she was confronted with the grey form of the coroner's van, and was watching the police officers moving about, the reality of the situation began to solidify. A man was dead. Struck by a driver who had left his battered body bleeding in the street. A man who likely had loved and was loved. For whom people were now, or would be soon, mourning. Perhaps a spouse, children, parents or siblings. Co-workers and friends would find a void in their lives too.

This wasn't a page in a book, or the result of clever film editing. This was no make-believe character or a well paid actor. There on the ground, several yards away, was the 'DB' that Ecklie had been referring to. The unfortunate victim was no longer a living, breathing, feeling human being, but a case number. The star in an active investigation in it's initial stages. She knew that the man had been a police officer. A homicide detective. _Denny Martens._

Cecilia tightened her fingers into fists, her nails digging into her palms, while her heart raced in her chest. What right did she have to be here? She tried to concentrate on Conrad Ecklie's voice, explaining some of the goings on. He paused near the police cruiser, parked close to the body, and opened his kit. He had taken off the suit jacket and left it on the rear seat of the SUV, and had donned a black vest instead, which indicated his affiliation with the CSI unit. Cecilia watched him as removed his camera, then wriggled his fingers into a pair of latex gloves. She concentrated on his actions, not wanting to look beyond to the deceased man, or the brutal evidence of his demise.

She told herself that she wasn't here as a thrill-seeker. But she couldn't shake the feeling that her being at the scene was an invasion of the dead man's privacy. Cecilia concentrated on taking deep breaths and trying to slow her racing heart.

"Ecklie."

She turned to the sound of the masculine voice. A middle-aged man of average height and build stood with his hands on his hips. Brown eyes regarded both she and the the CSI investigator coolly from beneath bushy brows.

"Morning, Jim," Conrad Ecklie said. He favoured the man with a slick grin then sobered. "Shame about Denny Martens. I didn't know him well, but he was a good man." Ecklie paused then continued. "Sheriff asked me to oversee this one personally. Doesn't want any mistakes, not with one of our own."

The man identified as Jim stared at Ecklie for a moment, and Cecilia thought she saw irritation cross his craggy features. "Yeah, a damn shame," he said finally with a woefulness that touched the writer. He looked questioningly at Cecilia.

"Cecilia Laval, this is Captain Jim Brass. Jim, Cecilia is a writer who'll be spending some time with us for the next little while." Ecklie made the introductions.

A writer? Brass's left eyebrow shot up. He recalled receiving the directive from the sheriff that some friend of a friend of a friend of the Kellerman's, or some such thing, was going to be disrupting the PD and CSI unit as part of some research project. That was all they needed. As if they didn't have enough trouble with those vultures with their media badges, always trying to push their way onto crime scenes, always circling the carrion of death or destruction to see who could get the best soundbite for the six o'clock slot, or who would have the most sensational headline for an above the fold article.

It was difficult enough trying to deal with their clamoring from the sidelines, trying to shake them off like rat terriers, with their tenacious questions and speculations. Precious time wasted while the police tried to do their jobs, and gather their evidence and ensure that the law was enforced. It wasn't enough that reporters were always picking at the edges of crime scenes, interfering, fighting one another for scraps, using whatever tricks they could to get the next scoop or exclusive. Now Kellerman and Mobley had decided that it was a great idea to invite one of the jackals in and lay out a veritable feast.

"Ms. Laval," Brass acknowledged in a flat tone.

Cecilia noticed that the Captain did not offer to shake, but instead kept his hands on his hips. The deepening of the creases in his forehead indicated the depth of his displeasure. "It's good to meet you, Captain Brass," she returned, trying to muster up a non-threatening smile. "I'm sorry that it's under such tragic circumstances."

Brass nodded curtly, and his lips twitched in what Cecilia thought might have been intended as a smile of his own, but which, lacking sincerity, dissipated before it ever had a chance to form. Then he was fixing his dark eyes on Conrad Ecklie. "Before you get started, there's something I wanted to say. Just a hunch I'm working."

Ecklie gazed loftily at the other man. "You can speak freely, Jim."

Cecilia knew that the detective was uncomfortable with her prescence. "Please," she interjected. "I understand, really. I appreciate your trust and willingness to include me, Conrad, but I don't want to get in the way when there is such important work to do." She saw that her response had caught the Captain off guard. "I can wait here so the two of you can discuss whatever you need to." She drew back against the cruiser.

"Thanks," Brass told her grudgingly. For a moment, his gaze softened, then he began to walk away, towards the body, while Conrad Ecklie fell into step beside him.

"What is it?" Ecklie demanded in a voice tight with aggravation.

Brass stifled his own. "I'm working a hunch about this. I'm not convinced this was some random hit and run. Witness says the vehicle actually _sped up._ I need to confirm what these marks," Brass stopped now, looking down at the black smears against the grey, "indicate. Deceleration? Or acceleration?"

Ecklie glanced at them, before dropping his first numbered marker, and snapping a couple of quick shots. "I can tell you now, Jim, they're acceleration marks."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But I just need it verified."

"That doesn't mean the hit was deliberate," Ecklie cautioned. "It's easy enough, under stress, to press the wrong pedal. Gas instead of brake." Brass nodded his agreement. "Is there some reason you think someone might have had it in for Martens?"

Brass shrugged his shoulders. "Like I said, just a hunch."

Ecklie persisted. "Retribution? Some perp he put away just get released? Is he working a dangerous case? What?" The CSI supervisor's eyes glinted with interest.

Jim had already considered those possibilities as well. Until he was certain that this had been an accident, there were no theories that he was not going to entertain. "I don't know yet," Brass admitted. There was no way he was going to say anything to Ecklie...to anyone, but especially to Conrad Ecklie...to compromise Denny Marten's reputation.

Brass might have a gut feeling that the coffee shop girl had been more than a casual acquaintance, but he didn't know that. Not yet. And even if it were true, it might not be relevant to the case. "Cop gets killed though, you gotta consider foul play. Either way, I want this one treated as a homicide, til we know more. On the QT."

Conrad Ecklie turned his attention to the body. Before it was transported he would have to search for and remove any minutia that might be connected to the accident, and which could help identify the SUV that had been involved. But it would be the vehicle itself that would clinch any case. "Of course," Ecklie told the other man. "If there's one thing I am, it's discreet."

Brass had to bite his inner cheek to keep from giving a loud guffaw. _Yeah_, he thought, _and I'm Brad Pitt_.


	5. And Then There Was One Ch 5

_Thank you to those who took the time to read and review this story so far. Beaujolais, thank you for letting me know that Brass's eyes are actually blue. I always thought they were brown. I know that one of the CSI trading cards that is Brass's ID lists them as brown. I hope that it won't bother anyone too much if I leave them as brown. In the CSI world that lives in my head, 'my' Brass has brown eyes. :-) _

_Thank you for your continued interest and I hope that this next chapter is as well received._

The sun had only just started it's ascent over the horizon. The undersides of the low lying clouds that drifted lazily down out of the mountains, were brushed with swaths of subdued gold and pastel pink which deepened in some places to a darker rose. The air still retained the fresh crispness of the desert night. Borne on unseen currents of air, a lone hawk circled high overhead in a sky of retreating indigo, giving a raucous cry as it floated effortlessly, surveying it's domain.

Gil Grissom stood in the bottom of the gully, staring thoughtfully at the burned out shell of the vehicle. A trucker who had stopped to relieve himself, had noticed it and called it in. There was a high probability that this was what remained of the SUV that had killed Denny Martens two days ago. Gil knew that technically he should have alerted Ecklie, since the hit and run was his case. But the call had come in on his shift, and since there was not yet any proof that this was the same vehicle, he had responded.

"Ditched and torched," Nick Stokes observed unnecessarily. "Any evidence that was inside, that would help us find the driver, has been obliterated." The younger, dark-haired man shook his head.

"Any evidence that was on the _inside_ is gone," Grissom re-iterated. "But that doesn't mean that we won't find something on the _outside._" He turned his head to the other investigator. "Someone had to drive this vehicle here. And then whoever it was had to walk back up to the road."

Nick kicked the toe of his shoe into the gravelly ground. "Little farther in, we might have gotten prints off of the sand. But this is too coarse." He titled back his head to assess the embankment. They would have the same limitation there. All they could hope for was some other kind of physical evidence. A dropped cigarette butt that they could extract DNA from. A hair sample maybe...the average person lost between seventy to one hundred and fifty strands a day. He swept his flashlight over the ground around his feet forcing back the last of the night's shadow.

"Let's give it another half hour," Grissom instructed the other man. "Wait til there's enough light to do this properly." Above them came the sound of a vehicle grinding to a crunching halt on the pebbled shoulder. It would either be Brass or the tow truck. "It's isolated so we don't have to worry about any further contamination of the scene."

"I hear Ecklie's treating this case as a possible homicide," Nick commented.

Gil shrugged his shoulders. "We don't know what our case is til we identify this vehicle. It might not have anything to do with Ecklie's case," he said elusively.

Nick crossed his arms over his chest. "Come on, Gris, abandoned vehicle in the desert and CSIs are the first on the scene? Everybody's thinkin' this is the SUV that killed Denny Martens."

"Hey!"

Grissom turned to the familiar voice and watched Jim Brass pick his way down the steep slope, ten yards or so beyond where the vehicle sat. Brass had known enough not to take the shortest route from the interstate above, to the gully below. Which, in all probability was the path the driver of the SUV would have taken. Grissom and Nick had descended a similar distance away from the centre point, but in the other direction. It was important to preserve as much of the original dump site as possible.

The detective walked towards them with his customary rolling gait. "I was with Warrick on a floater," Brass commented, "when I got the page. I got here as soon as I could. Is this our Durango?" Brass drew up beside Nick Stokes and surveyed the wreckage stoically. He was aware that even if it was, in it's current condition it was pretty much a dead end. The detective had been counting on finding it intact, clues to the driver's identity secreted within until the skilled CSI investigators extracted them.

Just after noon on the day that Denny Martens was killed, a car rental agency working out of the airport had called in the report of a stolen vehicle. The vehicle had been rented by a vacationing couple from Iowa who were staying at the Rampart on the main strip. They had checked into the hotel the previous evening, slept late, and woken to discover that the black Durango they had rented had been stolen from the hotel's side lot. They had contacted the rental agency, who in turn had notified police.

Brass had been frustrated to realize that if the couple had parked in the underground lot, the surveillance cameras would have captured the theft. The camera at the exit, especially, might had snapped a good shot of the thief's face. But there was no surveillance in the outdoor parking lot. No gates to pass through. And no one had noticed anything suspicious between the time the SUV had been parked, and the time the couple had come out the next day to find the spot empty.

Vehicles were stolen all of the time, however, and there were no guarantees that the reported Durango was the SUV used in the hit and run. Or even if this wreckage was the same Durango. The department had put the word out on the street that any chop shop found helping to dispose of a damaged SUV that turned out to be related to the hit and run, would be looking at a felony accessory after the fact charge. While patrols had kept an eye out for the Dodge, Brass had continued to follow his hunch. He had discovered that the other vehicle registered to the Martens was a Volvo sedan. Carina Horwath drove an older Cavalier.

The morning after Denny Marten's death, Jim Brass had called on Carina Horwath at her apartment. She was over her initial shock...the young were pretty resilient...though she still appeared pale and drawn. She had invited him in without hesitation, uncomplaining about having to answer additional questions. She had curled up on a love seat, tucking her lovely legs underneath her, while Jim had settled onto a wicker chair.

After a few unrelated queries, he had asked her straight out if she and Denny Martens had been having an affair. None of his discreet poking around had turned up anything to substantiate that Martens was being unfaithful. There had been no records of phone calls between Denny's home phone number, his cell or his office and either Carina's cell or Cup A Joe. But he couldn't shake the gut feeling he'd had that Horwath was hiding something...and that her interest in the other cop had extended beyond an acquaintanceship with a regular customer.

Brass had been surprised by how taken aback she had been by the question, and the hurt in her eyes had looked genuine. Her gaze hadn't waivered from his as she had responded to the question.

_"I was crazy about Denny, Captain Brass," _she had told him with a wan smile. _"I had a huge crush on him." _Her cheeks had flushed with embarassment at the admission. _"But we were just friends. I'm sure people lie to you all of the time...but I'm not that kind of girl. And Denny wasn't that kind of guy."_

She had paused for a moment, caught in her own recollections of Denny Martens. Her brown eyes went out of focus fleetingly, before her attention fixed again on Brass. _"If he had been that kind of guy...then I wouldn't have cared about him so much. Do you understand what I mean?" _Her open expression had been guileless.

_"Denny never had a clue," _she told him, her full lower lip trembling. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. _"And he was never going to know. And even if he had, he would never have acted on it. He was a sweet, decent guy who was devoted to his family. There aren't many like him, Detective." _

Carina Horwath had given a smile so full of admiration and affection for the deceased man, that it had caused an empty pang somewhere inside him. And then she spoke with a gentle maturity that made Brass acutely aware of just how jaded he had become.

_"Sometimes, a girl still likes to dream about Prince Charming or her Knight in Shining Armour. Even after she grows up and realizes that life isn't about castles in the sky. Denny's wife...she really found hers. And every day, just chatting with Denny, just having the pleasure of knowing him...each day I was reminded that maybe...one day...I might find mine too." _

The tears had spilled onto her cheeks then, and delicately, unashamedly, Carina had reached to brush them away. _"Do you really think that I would do anything to spoil that dream?" _

Brass had apologized then for asking, explaining it was part of his job, as uncharacteristic guilt and remorse enveloped him. He felt as though he had purposely stomped all over something beautiful and delicate, with big, dirty boots on. But even though he would now stake his badge that there had not been any sort of romantic relationship between Denny Martens and Carina Horwath, Jim Brass knew that it was plausible that someone else might have suspected the very thing that he had. And acted on that suspicion, even if it was erroneous.

He had shown Carina Horwath a photograph of Amy Martens, to determine if the young woman had ever seen Amy around the coffee shop before. Carina recognized Denny's wife immediately, and stated that she had seen photos of both Mrs. Martens and the couple's son Christian, numerous times. Denny was often bringing in snapshots of his family. But the blonde had never met Amy Martens in person.

Brass had asked Carina whether or not she was dating...she wasn't at the moment...and for the names of any prior boyfriends, or men whose advances she had declined. Especially any who frequented the coffee shop, or had approached her there. The list was a good place to start, and he had begun to systematically eliminate the men as suspects.

Always at the edge of his mind though, was the knowledge that someone who was capable of doing this, might also be someone who only had a fantasy relationship with Carina Horwath. Who had never even expressed his interest to the blonde, but could feel as though he'd been spurned. And who might then focus on someone like Denny as having stolen the affections of 'his' girl.

"Morning, Brass," Nick Stokes' perpetually cheery voice brought him back to the present. "I was just telling Grissom that for an abandoned vehicle, this one sure is getting a lot of high priority interest. Word has it that Ecklie's processing the Martens case as murder?"

Brass gave a short sigh. "I just don't want to miss anything. The SUV that hit Denny Martens accelerated before it hit him. Whether that was an accident, or whether it was deliberate...I dunno. I'm following up on a couple of angles."

Other detectives were interviewing officers at the precinct where Denny had worked, looking into his active investigations, and also checking recent releases of offenders that Martens had assisted in putting away. There was a caculated deliberation about the incident that bothered Brass. It had the feel of being personal.

"We just standing around, admiring the sunrise?" the police captain inquired conversationally, glancing over at Gil Grissom, crossing his hands in front of him at the wrists. He was glad that Grissom was on the scene, although he knew that Ecklie would be all over the supervisor for a perceived breach of etiquette.

Grissom raised his head and regarded the detective enigmatically. _"All shy things, breathless, watch the thin white skirts of dawn..." _He quoted effortlessly.

Nick gave a short laugh. "We're waiting for a bit more light."

Brass winked at Stokes. "Gee, but it sounds so much prettier the way Gil puts it."

Grissom ignored them, staring instead at the blackened metal form. Whoever had left the vehicle here, had walked back up the embankment, and then either gotten into a waiting car, or hitched a ride somewhere. They were too far out for anyone to have continued on foot. A waiting car would indicate an accomplice. Which could mean that whoever had killed Martens had a partner, or that someone was helping him or her to cover up after the fact.

The funeral was tomorrow afternoon. Conrad Ecklie was attending as the CSI unit's official representative. Last night, before shift, Catherine Willows had paused in the doorframe of Gil's office. _"Are you going to Denny Martens' funeral?" _she had asked, her blue eyes weary, her voice an octave lower than usual.

_"Ecklie's representing CSI," _Gil had informed her.

Catherine had looked at him then, her classically beautiful features inscrutable. _"I know it's been a while, but we used to work real close with Denny," _she had stated, an edge in her tone. _"I'm going...unofficially...as a former co-worker and someone who thought highly of him, and who's sorry that he's gone. To say good bye and pay my respects." _

Grissom had caught the condemnation in the last remarks. He knew that he had disappointed Catherine somehow. Surely she didn't think that he didn't care? Gil had been stunned when he'd heard what had happened. It honestly hadn't occured to him to attend the funeral though. Just the thought of being in the midst of all those people, part of that communal sorrow, made his chest feel tight. But it was obvious that being there was something that was important to Catherine. He recognized that she might need his support.

_"I could pick you up at your place," _Grissom suggested. _"We can go together."_

Catherine had agreed to the arrangement. As she had begun to move from the doorway, she had given Grissom one last look, her vivid blue eyes projecting sympathetic sorrow. Somehow, Gil thought that that particular emotion wasn't for Denny Martens though...but for him.

Nick Stokes was crouched, balancing on the balls of his feet, scrutinizing the desert ground that radiated out around the vehicle. He had found nothing yet. Not even a discarded match that might have been used to start the fire. Grissom had been able to determine, from occasional disturbed pebbles and scuffed earth, where the driver had tried to get a foothold ascending the gully, the path that he or she had taken back to the top. While Grissom worked above, walking the shoulders of the highway, looking for anything that might be linked to the vehicle or it's driver, Nick laboured below. Brass stood in the background, interjecting a question or comment now and then, but primarily deep in his own thoughts.

Nick's dark eyes were feeling the strain. He'd been in the lab for most of the shift, working on a rape case. A thirty-year old supermarket cashier had been on her way to the bus stop after closing, when she'd been attacked and dragged into an alley by two men. She had been severely beaten by both, and brutally raped by one of the attackers while his companion helped to hold her down. While Greg Sanders worked on determining the DNA of the rapist from the semen that had been recovered, Nick had taken the woman's clothing, to try to isolate the identity of her other attacker.

The CSI had gone over the garments in studious detail with a magnifying glass. Then, he had sat hunched over a microscope, trying to eliminate which of the tiny bits of trace that he removed were tied to the vic, and which might be from one of the animals who had hurt her. It had been difficult work, and he hadn't take much of a break.

Nick paused in his current task, rubbing his left thumb and forefinger over his closed lids. After a moment, he resumed his methodical search. Dawn had progressed into early morning. Shift change would have taken place. Nick Stokes wondered idly when Conrad Ecklie would be showing up. As if on cue, there was a screech of rubber from the interstate, then the forceful slamming of a door.

Ecklie's incensed voice cut through the morning air. "Just what do you think you're doing, Gil!"


	6. And Then There Was One Ch 6

It could have been oppressive.

The sorrow might have bound them to their seats. The bitter tears of loss and pain might have freely splashed down the cheeks of those who had come to say farewell, drowing them in misery. The senselessness of it all might easily have overwhelmed, leaving hatred and anger to hang in the diffused sunlit air that streamed through the panes of stained glass.

It could have been oppressive. But it wasn't.

Catherine Willows sat in one of the pews near the rear of the church, her right thigh pressed closely against the left leg of Gil Grissom, her left tight against the abundant hips of the grey-haired matron squeezed on the other side of her. They had been fortunate to even get seating, she knew, and a stealthy glance earlier had confirmed that other mourners were standing two deep at the rear of the building. She looked across the sea of heads to the pulpit, where the widow's brother, Denny Martens' best friend, was giving his eulogy.

Glen Brogowski was the consumate public speaker. The kind of guy who was probably asked regularly to act as the MC at weddings. The one who was always prompted to stand up when a group had gathered at some event or another, and it was time for someone to say a few words. Catherine wondered idly if the man was a salesman. Or even a motivational speaker. He had a pleasant voice, an innate sense of timing and wonderful projection.

It was, she decided, the best eulogy she had ever heard. Not even because of the delivery, but because the speaker captured the essence of Denny Martens, his words embodying the best of the man, without being either maudlin or too saccharine. Denny's brother-in-law spoke of all of Denny's accomplishments, encompassed all of the good that the other man had done, without nominating him for sainthood.

Which would have been an easy line to cross. Catherine listened to some of the detective's interests, and how he spent his off-duty hours. Martens had been a devout Christian. He was active in his church, spear-heading the latest fundraising drive that had concentrated on repairing and preserving the the antique bronze bell in the steeple. He had spent two weeks out of most summers, as a youth leader at a camp for inner-city children, outside Las Vegas. It had been Denny's suggestion that the family foster young puppies, providing their early socialization and obedience training, before they went on to be groomed as guide and service dogs.

The speaker touched lightly on those aspects of Denny Martens, including them because that was part of the man that he had been, while still presenting him as a man with a sense of humour, and one who was not perfect. There were references to Denny's love of golf, despite his ineptitude at the game. Mentions of the practical gags he liked to play on those close to him. An affectionate admittance of how Denny had always messed up the punch lines of jokes.

The eulogy was humourous, and honest and while it acknowledged the deep loss that had been suffered, it truly was a celebration of Denny Martens' life. Catherine would bet that every single person inside that church had probably wondered, at one point during the commemoration, just as she had, what those close to them would say about them, when their turn came.

Denny Martens' widow, Amy, sat in the front pew, next to a tall, gangly teen that Catherine knew must be the couple's son, Christian. The auburn-haired woman had a serenity about her that Catherine admired and envied. She sat straight and proud, nodding her head in agreement with some of her brother's comments. At one point, she had given a light chuckle, remembering the playful side of her spouse. She had dabbed at her eyes surrepititously with a handkerchief when Glen Brogowski had spoken of Denny's fierce devotion and loyalty to his wife and son.

While her sorrow at her loss was undeniable, Catherine was struck by the fact that Amy Martens radiated an inner peace. Initially, Catherine believed that that was because the woman was devout in her faith, and drawing strength from that. But though she knew that was certainly part of it, it struck her that Amy Martens' calm was one free of regrets.

In an instant, Catherine was transported to that moment in her not too distant past when she had been the one sitting at the front pew, her arm gripped tightly around her young daughter Lindsey, while a paid, non-denominational minister who had never even met Eddie Willows, tried to accentuate the positives of the man's wasted life.

Catherine had still been so terribly angry at Eddie for the danger that he had put their daughter in. She hadn't even been able to absorb that Eddie was gone, because she was so focused on the horror that Lindsey had endured. Catherine had sat stiffly in the pew, tuning out the droning of the half-hearted eulogy, her manicured nails digging into her palms as she relived the desperation of her search for her daughter.

Lindsey's sreams and frantic pleas had still been ringing in Catherine's ears, as they had laid Eddie to rest. While the minister spoke to the sparse gathering, Catherine was once again plunging into the cold run-off, banging her fists against the windows of the vehicle, while Lindsey, trapped within, implored her mommy to help her.

That had been the worst day of Catherine's life. The fear that had spasmed in her lower intestines, and which been an iron band around her chest, was indescribable. She had had to fight to keep her mind focused, as reason tried to retreat in the face of the enormity of her potential loss. Catherine had shouted and raged, and inwardly cursed the man whose irresponsibility and stupidity had endangered her baby this way.

Somehow, Lindsey had gotten out safely. When they had told Catherine later that Eddie Willows' body had been retrieved, her only thought had been, _'At least I won't have to go to prison for killing the bastard myself.'_ Her maternal protectiveness had burned hotly.

She had cursed Eddie again when she had had to perch on the edge of Lindsey's bed, and gather her sweet girl into her arms, and tell her that her daddy was dead. Eddie had been a terrible spouse, and he hadn't been a very good dad for the most part, but Catherine knew that somewhere deep inside him, he had loved his daughter. And Lindsey, with a child's enormous capacity to forgive, and willingness to overlook even the most egregious shortcomings, had loved him in return.

It had been awkward for people, Catherine knew, at Eddie's funeral. The few who had made the effort to attend, anyway. Her colleagues from the graveyard shift had been there...fellow CSIs and a few of the lab scientists. Dr. Robbins had been there, with his wife. A couple of Eddie's so-called friends from the music industry had been there, shifting uncomfortably on the peripherary of the core group. Catherine had half-expected one or more of them to approach her after the service and try to hit her up for money that Eddie might have owed them.

She had been uncertain of her own role. The couple was divorced, so she wasn't the grieving spouse. Her position was tenuous, and ambiguous. There was none of the definitiveness of a marital relationship. Catherine had not been a widow, the way that Amy Martens was now. And people had been unsure of how to respond, how to comfort, or even if comfort was appropriate or necessary.

Even after Eddie had been buried, the service long past, there had been an awkwardness surrounding the situation. When her fear had finally abated, and her initial anger at Eddie had receded, Catherine had been hit with unexpected grief at his death. Not for the Eddie that he had been in recent years. Not for the Eddie who reported her to Child Protective Services when a particularly gruesome, high profile case had so absorbed her that she'd forgotten to pick Lindsey up after dance class. Not the Eddie who had mortgaged her house without her awareness or consent. Her grief was not for the Eddie who had lied to her and cheated on her, repeatedly, during their marriage, taking all of the love that she had to offer and throwing it back in her face.

Once a few months had passed, however, Catherine had discovered herself missing the Eddie that she had once fallen in love with. The man who had made her feel beautiful and desirable and who had unleashed a depth of passion that she hadn't known she was capable of. A man who taught her that it was all right for a woman to have erotic feelings and to act on them. Who had introduced her to a side of herself that she had kept submerged, out of guilt. Who had helped her to become comfortable with her sexuality rather than ashamed and embarassed by it. And to use it for her own pleasure, and not just the pleasure of others.

She recalled the Eddie who used to surprise her with bouquets of fresh flowers. Though later in their relationship these gifts had been prompted by Eddie's own fleeting remorse about his infidelities, in the beginning Catherine knew they had been spontaneous expressions of love. She would curl up on the sofa after a long shift, and remember how Eddie used to massage her feet when they ached sometimes after hours of dancing in stiletto heels.

She would picture again the wonder and awe in his eyes when he had held Lindsey for the first time, and the catch in his voice when he had told Catherine how he would never be able to thank her enough for this precious gift. She reminisced about the Eddie who would hold her in his strong arms in the dead of night, and whisper to her of his dreams and the grandiose plans for the future. Their future.

And _that_ Eddie, Catherine Willows had discovered, to her complete surprise, she mourned. She had kept those tears hidden, however. She had not shared those feelings with anyone else. There was no one that it seemed would understand, even if she had tried to share. She was not the widow. She had divorced Eddie, cut him out of her life as much as possible while still grudgingly recognizing his paternal rights. And the unspoken sentiment seemed to be that when she had signed the papers, she had flushed all traces of her ex-husband out of her heart at the same time.

And so Catherine had had to work through a history fraught with regrets for a life that had been denied them all because of Eddie's weaknesses. All on her own, as her battered heart sought to lay Eddie to rest.

People had worried about Lindsey. They had expressed their sympathy for the little girl again and again, recognizing her loss. They had inquired about Catherine's daughter, and Catherine had been grateful for, and appreciative of, their honest concern. But no one asked how _she _was doing. How _she_ was coping. Because she wasn't Eddie Willows' widow. She was just his former, betrayed spouse, and the mother of his only child.

Catherine dragged her thoughts away from her own life, to concentrate on saying good bye to Denny Martens. She banished thoughts of Eddie, and conjured up an image of Denny, a few years younger, when she had worked with him regularly. The thing that stood out to her most, was how genuine and upbeat he was. He had had a way of making people feel valued, and good about themselves.

He was one of the few men who would have a conversation with her without his eyes continuously dipping to her cleavage, whether consciously or unconsciously. When Catherine had had to fight to be taken seriously by some of the cops and CSIs she worked with, especially when people learned that she had been an exotic dancer at one time, Denny Martens had treated her respectfully from the onset of their working relationship.

At a crime scene, years ago, working a kidnap case, a young patrol officer had made a smug comment to Catherine unrelated to the case, about 'shaking her stuff'. Denny Martens had managed to give a cool reprimand, and to elicit an apology towards Catherine, without making a major issue out of the incident. His disdain for the other man had not been the result of political correctness but had been prompted by his own strong sense of morals and values.

"Did you want to go to the gravesite?" Gil was whispering against Catherine's ear, twisting towards her, interrupting her recollections. The eulogy had ended and the pastor was taking the pulpit to offer a closing prayer.

Catherine had already decided that she would forgo the gathering at the cemetery. There was such a large crowd, she thought it was only fair to make room for those who had been closest to Denny in recent years, as they transported his coffin and laid it in his grave. She shook her head slightly to indicate that she would not be going.

Gil Grissom felt himself relax a bit. The service was almost over. It hadn't been as bad as he had anticipated. Surprisingly, there was no grey pall hanging over the mourners. There was sadness, surely, but even in the acceptance of death there was an obvious and moving celebration of life.

Gil wasn't sure what he believed about the human soul and about death. The scientist in him was inclined to think that when it was over...it was over. That only nothingness would follow the cessation of breathing, the final beating of the heart, and the inactivity of the brain. Once the body was no longer needed, and had begun it's inexorable disintegration back to the earthly soup from which all existence had sprung, that individual's journey must surely be over. Death had an undeniable finality that could not be dismissed.

Yet the Catholic upbringing of his youth was not so easy to escape. Could there be an eternal soul? Was there a heaven and a hell? If there was, Gil had no doubts as to where Denny Martens would be. The love and respect for the man he had been was a living thing, gently insinuated between mourners on the pews, curled in the corners of the church, floating with the dust motes that swirled lazily in the multi-coloured streams of light cast by the stained glass.

The last funeral Gil had attended had been for Eddie Willows. The marked difference between the two events was not lost on him, and he was sure that it was not last on Catherine either. He glanced at her surreptitiously from the corner of his blue eyes. She sat there, seemingly focused on the service, but he could read her well enough after all of these years, when he took the time to do so, to know that she kept drifting away. And there seemed only one logical place that she would be going.

There was a tightness to the set of her full, pink mouth, and his eyes lingered on her lips for a moment. Gil was aware, for the second time that day, of how beautiful and sensuous Catherine appeared without even making any effort. When he had knocked on the door of her tidy, little bungalow and she had opened it to allow him in, it was the first thing he had thought. Even with subdued make up, and uniformly dark blue skirt, hose and classicly styled blouse, her overt attractiveness had reached past the boundaries of their friendship and working relationship, to speak to that part of him that was fueled by testosterone.

Gil thought automatically of Lady Heather. It wasn't until much later that he had recognized he had been drawn to the dominatrix for many of those same qualities that Catherine Willows possessed. They were both strong women, emotionally and psychologically. Both intelligent. Though physically different, each was extraordinarily beautiful. And each was comfortable in her own skin. Both unapologetically embracing their sexuality. Each woman not merely accepting her femininity but glorying in it.

Gil shifted uncomfortably in his seat, believing his thoughts inappropriate given the circumstances. Was he really so detached from those around him that while others were grieving, he was allowing free rein to some of his hedonic musings?

Jim Brass spied Catherine and Gil outside the church, exchanging polite greetings with some of their co-workers. Excusing himself for a moment from the other police officers he had sat with during the service, he made his way towards the pair. As he moved through the crowd, his dark eyes did a quick scan of each face he encountered. Wondering if, somewhere among them, Denny Martens killer was expressing false sorrow and shocked disbelief at his demise.

There were officers unobtrusively recording the images of those in attendance today. Just as there had been at the viewings, and would be at the cemetery. Not that Brass really thought that they would capture the face of a killer. But it was impossible to tell just when a break in a case might come.

As he had expected, there had been nothing to learn from the Durango that had been recovered from the desert, other than to verify through it's VIN number that it was the same vehicle stolen from the Rampart's lot, and for CSI to confirm that it did have damage consistent with a hit and run. All traces of the driver had been exorcised by the flames.

Conrad Ecklie had been fuming when he had arrived, lighting into Grissom straight away. Demanding to know what steps had been taken, what progress made, if any, and insisting that Grissom and Stokes turn over to him everything related to the abandoned vehicle. Making it clear that it would be his team that went over the Durango, once it had been towed back.

Brass was sure that Ecklie would have been even more obnoxious than he had been, if his writer pal hadn't been there as well. Her prescence had seemed to temper Ecklie's language and the force of his anger. Cecilia Laval had been obviously discomfitted by having to witness the turf spat between the two CSI supervisors. She had wandered away from Ecklie's Denali, further back down the shoulder of the road, pretending to be engrossed in the skyline. Distancing herself emotionally, even if she couldn't do so physically.

Grissom had relented easily enough, though he had stopped short of apologizing for not notifying Ecklie but for responding to the call himself. If the Durango was tied to the Martens case, Gil recognized Ecklie's jurisdiction, and if it wasn't, he was handing the vehicle over to dayshift anyway.

One face jumped out at Brass from the crowd. Carina Horwath's. She was standing near the street, while a tall, attractive blonde who had to share the same gene pool, hovered protectively nearby. Horwath had been at one of the viewings, expressing her condolences to Amy Martens, and Brass had made a point to be there to observe the interaction.

Mrs. Martens had been familiar with the name, when Carina had introduced herself, though nothing in her outward demeanour had indicated jealousy or resentment. She had gone so far as to comfort the younger woman with a brief hug, knowing that Carina had witnessed Denny's death. Brass had overheard Amy tell Carina that Denny had thought very highly of the young woman, and then wished her continued success in her life's goals. If Amy Martens had ever suspected her husband of cheating on her with the beautiful blonde, then she had given an Oscar-worthy performance. He had ruled out the widow as having been involved in engineering Denny's death.

Brass had been humbled by the grace Amy Martens had displayed in the aftermath of her loss. She had known that he was the lead investigator on the case, and he had kept her apprised of developments. When he had told her that they had found the Durango that had been nothing involved, but that there had been nothing to help indentify whoever had been driving it when it had run down Denny, she had accepted the information pragmatically.

_"Jim, we aren't going to find out who did this, are we?" _she had asked him, her green-eyed gaze calm. _"This will be one of the ones that goes unsolved."_

For a brief moment, he had been about to offer the usual platitudes. About how the department was doing everything they could, and how he would do everything in his power to see that justice was served. But Brass had known that he couldn't lie to her. _"It's looking that way," _he had admitted with regret.

She had nodded tiredly, thanked him for his honesty, then reached to squeeze his hand compassionately, understanding how difficult the truth was for all of them to accept.

"The service was lovely," Catherine was saying.

Jim directed a sad smile towards she and Gil. "Yeah. Big turnout."

"Lots of people truly cared for Denny Martens," Catherine remarked. "He made an impact."

All three stood quietly for a moment, reflecting on their own lives, and how they would be remembered by those whose lives they had touched.

"Are you going to the cemetery?" Brass questioned.

Catherine shook her head. "No. I think there are others who belong there more. I think I'm just going to go home and try to get a couple of hours of sleep. I'm on tonight."

Grissom echoed her plans.

"Do you have anything at all on the case?" Catherine asked Jim, lowering her voice.

He shook his head. "Nothing. I'm still following a few leads, but it looks like we'll be putting this one to bed in a few days."

"Well, I hope whoever was behind the wheel is haunted for the rest of his life by the knowledge of what his negligence caused," Catherine said with unconcealed animosity. She knew that the SUV that had hit Denny Martens had been a stolen vehicle, and assumed that one or more kids, out joyriding, had killed Denny. Then they had panicked and abandoned the Durango, starting the fire that they hoped would shield their indentities. Catherine felt that this tragedy had been a matter of Denny's being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Jim Brass, on the other hand, still remained unconvinced. Even without any evidence to substantiate it, other than the acceleration marks that could be explained as a panicked mistake, the detective couldn't shake the feeling that Denny Martens had been a specific target, his death a deliberate act of homicide.

_A pair of pale orbs were riveted to the newspaper's obituary page, rereading details of an internment that was probably taking place at that very moment. Long fingers, with boney knuckles, drummed the folded sheet of paper in a continuous, obsessive pattern. Thin lips in a gaunt countenance curled in a ghastly semblance of pleasure. A husky voice whispered the words with infinite slowness, savouring each syllable._

_"And then there were two."_


	7. And Then There Was One Ch 7

Conrad Ecklie sipped the ice water in his glass, while he glanced at the menu. When he looked up, he saw the two women approaching him. Sophia lead the way, with her no-nonsense stride, and behind her followed Cecilia Laval. Conrad had arranged to meet the two women here after Denny Martens' funeral, for a late lunch. His eyes left the women, scanning the wood-panelled, pub-style room, noting just how many of the dark-suited figures were familiar to him. Coopers was a popular place with many on the LVPD force, and it wasn't surprising that others had also arranged to congregate here.

The place was crowded. There had been people standing in the entry, waiting for tables. Sophia had given Ecklie's name and been directed to a booth to the right of the front doors. Cecilia followed the blonde to where Ecklie sat. He stood at their approach, while both women slid onto the bench seat opposite him.

"Busy," Sophia remarked. "How did things go?" She asked her supervisor, her voice softening.

"It was actually very positive," Conrad replied wistfully. "There were many people who cared a great deal about Denny Martens. The eulogy was perhaps the best I've ever heard. His wife and son were impressive. Sad, of course, but very strong." He leaned his elbows on the table, crossings his arms in front of him. "And how did your day go?" He inquired of Cecilia.

Conrad Ecklie had picked Cecilia up at her apartment that morning, saying that since an official errand had him in the area anyway, they might as well car pool. The had spent the early hours in the lab, where he had demonstrated how they matched bullets to guns from their unique striae caused by the barrel. They had observed Bobby fire a gun that they suspected was linked to a recent robbery, and then retrieve the bullets to compare against those recovered from the scene. They had been rewarded with a match. Afterwards, when Ecklie had had to leave for the funeral, he had paired Cecilia with Sophia Curtis.

Cecilia gave a wan smile. It had been an interesting day, one that was going to stay with her for a long time. "Sophia had to go to the morgue," Cecilia told Conrad. "I tagged along." She watched him raise an eyebrow, as he guessed where this was probably heading. "The coroner was just finishing up an autopsy..." Cecilia swallowed, paling again at the memory.

Conrad inclined his head at the blonde. He had planned on taking the writer to the morgue himself. That was a pivotal experience, something that he had wanted to control. "Which case?" he asked her, an edge creeping into his tone.

"Watson," Sophia answered coolly. Brian Watson, aged thirty-three, was a jumper. It was suspected that he had leapt from his seventh floor hotel room at the Spades, after a really bad run at the tables.

The novelist thought that she had mentally prepared herself for something like this, long before she had even boarded the plane to Las Vegas. She had known that she would be confronted with death and sorrow and all of the behind-the-scenes horrors that those working in law enforcement and forensic science faced on a regular basis.

But when Sophia had pushed through the doors into the exam room, and Cecilia had plunged in after her, it had been as though she'd stepped into a vivid but surreal dream. Time had seemed to slow. All of her senses had been heightened. The first thing that had hit her had been the smell. Chemical...unpleasant...overpowering. She had immediately opened her mouth to avoid breathing through her nose, and inhaling the chilled air past her over-active olfactory pockets.

But unexpectedly, and shockingly, Cecilia had been able to _taste_ the air, as she sucked it back across her tongue and down her throat. Neither Sophia nor Dr. David Phillips, the baby-faced assistant coroner, seemed to notice how...different...the air was in the room. Cecilia had felt trapped, needing oxygen, but unable, or unwilling, to gulp in the artificially cooled air of the morgue.

The body had lain on the table, a white sheet pulled up to its waist, while Dr. Phillips finished the final few sutures of the Y incision that cross-sected the dead man's chest. The left side of the victim's body was smashed, almost looking as though the internal flesh, blood and bone had _exploded _through his unnaturally pale skin. His bloodshot eyes were open and fixed, clouded already with the aftermath of death, in a ghastly zombie stare.

Cecilia had felt her stomache convulse, as hot bile had backed up her esophagus. She had clenched her teeth, and swallowed it back down, and braced her feet on the floor, to steady her shaking legs. Blood had rushed through her ears, so that she only caught glimpses of the conversation between the blonde CSI and the dark-haired coroner. _Otherwise healthy. Blood gone to tox. Blunt trauma. Gambling addiction. _

When Sophia had turned to leave the room, Cecilia had exhaled in a whoosh, feeling physically and mentally exhausted. Outside in the corridor, Sophia had looked at her gently and stated, _"You did all right in there."_

_"It was quite an experience," _Cecilia had allowed.

The last few days had been, actually. While Conrad Ecklie had been even more solicitous then Cecilia had ever hoped, she was realizing that she did not want to spend the next few months interacting this closely with the man, or having him set the tone for her research. While he was obviously capable in his job, and deferential towards her, Cecilia found the undercurrents in the lab disquieting.

The CSIs on day shift, though they extended a professional respect for their supervisor, clearly did not have a lot of personal respect for the man. There seemed to be some resentment of Ecklie, even a low level of fear that displeasing him might bring career-altering consequences. Except perhaps from Sophia Curtis, who seemed able to handle Ecklie with deft surety. The blonde woman was clearly his protege and managed to overlook some of the man's more deplorable qualities, to seek out that which she could gain from him, both in knowledge and in cementing her future with the unit.

Ecklie himself simply rubbed Cecilia the wrong way. She found him to be self-centred, arrogant and often derisive in his treatment of his subordinates. He was grating. While he would make a good character study for an antagonist for a story, her proposed novel already had that position filled.

She had been hearing snippits of information about the team that worked night shift. The supervisor, in particular, Gil Grissom, seemed very intriguing. She had met him a couple of times now, once briefly outside the elevators, and again at the scene of the burned out Durango. That had been awkward for her, watching Ecklie lash out at the other man in an aggrieved territorial spat. Grissom had acceded control of the scene, but had been unapologetic and refused to refute Ecklie's accusations of 'glory-seeking'. The blue eyes that had beheld Ecklie had been unmistakably contemptuous.

There was a rivalry between the various shifts which surprised Cecilia. For some reason she had not considered that something as petty as politics and professional jealousies would invade such a world, where people dealt daily with the reality of death and were faced with all of the worst of human nature.

_Gruesome Grissom._ That was what one of the young day shift CSIs, Jason, had snickered about the other supervisor yesterday. Someone else mentioned that Grissom was a noted entomologist, not only one of the premier scientists in that field in the state, but in the country. But there was only grudging respect at this pronouncement. The consensus seemed to be that Gil Grissom, with his 'pet' fetal pig, the Madagascar Hissing Cockroaches that he raised, and his lack of political savvy, was just plain _weird._

That night, back in her apartment, Cecilia had sat on the comfortable sofa, her laptop perched across her knees, and had searched the world wide web for any information about Dr. Grissom. There were many articles from local newspapers where his name had been mentioned in conjunction with different cases. There were other references to the conferences where he had been guest speaker, and to articles that he had written for both forensic and entomological publications.

Cecilia also had the sense that the agents who worked with Gil Grissom had a genuine respect and fondness for the man. She had heard it in the brunette's voice that morning when she had boasted about her boss's instincts on the accidental death case. And she had seen it on the face of the young, dark-haired CSI with the hint of a Texas drawl, that morning in the desert.

She was determined to put in a full effort, and had already decided to remain at least another week with the day shift unit, and to really try to get everything she could out of the experience, without allowing her personal feelings about Conrad Ecklie...growing more negative by the day...to interfere in her research. But if at the end of that time, she still felt that it wasn't the right fit, Cecilia was determined to see if she couldn't arrange to spend some time with those on the graveyard shift.

Jim Brass had watched Ecklie's favourite CSI enter Coopers, trailed by his mini-celebrity. As the two women joined the scientist, Jim took a swig of his beer, and chuckled distractedly at something the cop on his left was saying.

"Jimbo!" the hearty voice called. Ebony features wrinkled around a perfect smile, as the bald-headed man reached to grab Brass by the shoulder. "It's been a long time!"

"Hey, Elliott!" Brass returned with good humour, swivelling to face the imposing figure on his right.

After the internment, there had been a gathering back at the home of Glen Brogowski, Amy Martens' brother. Though he had been welcomed to attend, Jim had known that it was primarily an opportunity for those who had been closest to Denny Martens, family and good friends, to share their sorrow at his loss, and exchange their stories about him, and to comfort one another. Jim had forgone this, instead meeting some of the other detectives and police officers who had been in attendance today, at Coopers, a popular hang out for those in law enforcement.

He sat now enjoying his beer, and popping handfuls of peanuts into his mouth. He was pleased to see Elliott Keeth. The other man was right. It had been a long time. Keeth still looked the same. Perhaps the crowsfeet at his eyes were a bit deeper, the flesh on his jowls a bit thicker, but the dark, animated eyes and the booming bass voice, were still the same. Keeth looked much younger than his sixty years. Apparantly the other detective still had a fondness for Jack Daniels. His breath was heavily laced with the stuff. Brass made quick introductions with the cop on his left.

Keeth ordered a whiskey, as he settled his big frame onto the stool. He was a tall man, six foot four, and he had a burly, barrel-chested build, and massive arms that strained the fabric of his dark suit. Keeth took a pack of cigarettes out of his chest pocket, and shook a couple out, offering one to Brass.

"Thanks, but I quit a few years ago," Brass declined.

"No crap? Well, good for you! Every January first I tell myself, that was the last year I waste my money on these cancer sticks. And every year I fall off the wagon within a day or two. I just can't seem to help myself. I think I just enjoy the damned things too much." He gave a self-deprecating laugh, as he pulled one out for himself, and lit it with a silver Zippo. "Especially with a coffee or a drink. How'd you do it? Cold turkey? Hypnosis? The Patch?"

"Cold turkey," Brass answered. "First week was a killer. But after that, I didn't even miss them." He watched the blue miasma that floated and curled around the other man's head. "Every once in a while though, I'll catch a whiff and for a moment, I'll want one." Of course, the remainder of times, the odour only served to turn his stomache. And Brass would wonder how he ever could have gone around stinking like that, and not known it. He drew a long gulp of his beer. "So how've you been keeping, Elliott?"

Keeth shrugged his broad shoulders. "Can't complain. I'm down in Laughlin these days." The Nevada town, bordering California and Arizona on the Colorado River, was ninety miles from Vegas. "Watching the clock now. One more year til retirement." His tone was upbeat, but Brass caught the shadow that flitted across the dark eyes.

"Got me a girlfriend too, going on three years now." Keeth chuckled, winking at Brass as he added, "Sorry, I'm supposed to say 'significant other'. That's what Dana says, anyhow. Supposed to be more mature and dignified. It's been an on again, off again thing. But we're talking moving in now. Nice lady. Mortgage broker." He reached for the glass that the bartender slid towards him.

"That's great," Brass smiled at him.

"Helluva service today," Keeth commented, his voice edged with poignancy, while he drew on his cigarette. "Hadn't talked to Denny in a while. He was a good cop. A good man. I couldn't believe it when I heard it." He shook his head regretfully. He pulled an ashtray towards him, and flicked the butt of his cigarette against it. He swivelled his head, to stare thoughtfully at the other detective. "Heard you got a warrant for Denny's phone records, and those of some hot waitress."

Jim could see the reproach in his old friend's eyes. He sighed inwardly. He hadn't wanted to sully Denny Martens' reputation with his pursuit of the case, and he hadn't said a single word to anyone about getting the warrant. Someone at the courthouse had obviously leaked that information. Though it wasn't that surprising, Brass mused. People loved a good story, especially if it involved scandal.

"I wasn't convinced that what happened to Denny was an accident," Brass confided. "Since it happened outside the coffee shop he frequented, I looked into the girl. Had to elimate possible motive." He paused. "I didn't find a thing in that regard. And glad of it."

Elliott Keeth frowned, the crevices around his eyes deepening. "Denny wasn't that kind of guy. I heard Ecklie was running the investigation as a possible homicide. I didn't know you'd been the one to put him up to it. You satisfied that it really was an accident?"

Brass liked Elliott Keeth. If the man had a failing, it was that he liked to gossip. especially when there was liquor warming his gut. Brass didn't want rumours and speculation plaguing Denny Martens family. With a dark, steady gaze, he lied to his old friend. "Yeah. One of those freak things. Someone in a stolen SUV. Denny was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Keeth looked satisfied. "Helluva thing, death. You just never know when your number is gonna be up."

Cecilia was finishing off her Caesar salad, when Conrad's cell phone began to ring. Wiping his lips to remove all traces of his fettucine Alfredo, he flipped it open and brought the phone to his ear. "Ecklie," he said briskly.

Cecilia could hear the sound of a man's voice on the other end, though it was impossible to distinguish what was being said. Ecklie looked at Sophia. "Yes, she's here with me." There was a pause, while the other man spoke, and Conrad glanced at his watch. "Of course. We'll be there." He pushed end, then looked across the table at the two women. "That was the DA. Sophia, he wants us to meet him at the courthouse. Judge Benton wants to see us in his chambers. Something to do with the Schiller case."

Cecilia felt the woman at her side tense. "The jury has been in deliberations since yesterday," Sophia stated. "What is that snake, Matthews, trying to pull now?" Her voice was hard. Shifting slightly towards Cecilia she explained, "He's a defense attorney, who only cares about winning, and walks a real fine line on the ethical border. A real, first class jerk."

Conrad nodded his agreement of the assessment. "The Schiller case is a high profile rape case involving a local high school jock...home town football hero...and some friends of his who assaulted his ex girlfriend several months ago." He shook his head. "Real brutal attack. They broke the young woman's jaw and her left wrist, and there were multiple vaginal lacerations. The defense was a classic case of putting the victim on trial." His eyes glinted angrily.

"We'd better get going," Sophia said, reaching for her purse.

Ecklie hesitated, his eyes darting to Cecilia before checking his watch again. "Unfortunately, I can't ask you to accompany us to the judge's chambers," he said. "I'll run you back to your apartment now, if that's okay. Sophia, you go on ahead and let them know I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Please," Cecilia insisted, "this sounds important, Conrad. Don't worry about me, I can take a cab home just fine."

He hesitated. "Are you sure?" Sheriff Mobley had let Ecklie know that the writer was his responsibility, and that the Kellermans considered it a personal favour that he would watch over her while she was visiting the city.

Jim Brass was on his way to the exit, just approaching the table where Ecklie and the two women sat. He overheard the tail end of their conversation and found himself pausing there against his better judgement. "Did I hear that someone needs a ride?" he queried.

Ecklie quickly explained the situation. Cecilia was surprised to see the detective incline his head in a friendly fashion. He had been very brusque on their previous meetings. "I'd be happy to give you a lift," Brass was saying.

"There's no need, really, to inconvenience anyone. I appreciate the offer, but there's no reason I can't just call a taxi." Cecilia smiled embarassedly.

"Nonsense," Ecklie put in. "I'm sure it's no trouble, right Jim?" He smiled up at the detective. If he left the novelist in the hands of one of LVPD's finest, he would be certain of her getting home. The last thing he needed was a phone call from the mayor saying that his wife's friend had disappeared. However unlikely that was. Ecklie's first rule was 'cover your butt'.

Before Cecilia could demure, Conrad and Sophia were rising to leave the table. Conrad opened his wallet and extracted several bills, setting them down under the edge of his water glass. "Thanks, Jim. Cecilia, we'll see you tomorrow then." And then the two CSIs were leaving the exit and the police captain was sliding onto the bench that the supervisor had just vacated.

"Finish your salad," Brass instructed, as he raised his hand to signal the waitress for the bill.

The detective's car was a brown sedan, solid and dependable, matching, Cecilia thought, the aura that surrounded him. He had asked her address at the table, and had told her that her apartment was only a half dozen blocks from his own. He assured her that since he was headed home now, she wasn't taking him out of his way. He opened the car door for her, closing it once she was settled, before going around to the other side.

Jim Brass had been pleased when the writer's response to his holding open the car door for her, had been a grateful smile and a murmured thank you. He had learned over the years that you can just never anticipate how a woman would react to the simple courtesies. In many ways, Jim Brass was old-fashioned. His father had drilled into Jim and his brother Peter that there were two absolute rules when it came to women. The first was...you never put your hands on a woman in anger. The second was...you always hold doors.

In the first five decades of his life, Jim had managed to never break those commandments. There had been times, in the course of his job, where he had had to subdue a female suspect. But he had only used the minimal amount of force necessary, and it had always been as a last resort, and never in the heat of anger. He had a lot of animosity for guys who hit their wives or girlfriends.

Holding doors for women had gotten him a variety of responses over the years. In Jim Brass' mind, holding doors was a courtesy. Something that he did because he respected women. Because he believed it was the polite thing to do. But the women didn't always see it that way. Sometimes, they would laugh at him, for his antiquated ways. Sometimes, they would seem angry. Hostile almost.

Sara Sidle had been that way, the first time he'd held open a car door for her. She had tensed, her mouth tightening in a sullen pout, sliding into her seat and wrenching the door closed behind her, pulling it out of his grasp. When he'd come around to his side, and gotten in and started the vehicle, she had chastized him moodily. _"I'm every bit as capable as any man you've ever worked with," _she had practically snapped_. "I don't need to be handled with kid gloves. I'm not some bit of fluff, I'm a fully trained CSI. And before it ever comes up, I don't like to be called 'Babe' or 'Sweetheart'. I'll answer to Sidle, or to Sara."_

He'd never made the mistake of doing _that_ again. Brass supposed that he had known where she was coming from. Even in this day of enlightenment, there were some men, anachronistic dinosaurs, who felt that women had no place on the force, at least on the front lines. He knew that they often had to work doubly hard to be recognized as peers. Young or pretty women, especially, were often taken less seriously. He could only speculate that there were occurences in Sara's past that had caused her to react that way. They had moved past the incident though, and it hadn't taken long for her to know that Jim respected the women he worked with just as much as the men...once they had earned it.

Brass was surprised, as he navigated through the city streets, at how quiet the woman was. He'd never known a reporter who wasn't constantly jabbering, firing off questions about one thing or another. But Cecilia Laval, after thanking him again for offering to give her a lift, had sat gazing out her window meditatively, content with her own thoughts.

"Is this your first time in Vegas?" he had asked at last, initiating conversation to pass the time.

"Yes, it is. It's something. I'm not quite sure what to make of it. The lights and the glamour are what I expected. The fast pace of the city is both intoxicating and tiring at the same time. I was surprised by some of the...seedier aspects." Her voice was pleasant, slightly husky, with a lyrical quality. "I'm from Pennsylvania. Erie, on the lake. Quite a different place."

"I'm a Jersey boy originally, myself," he told her, then wondered why he had. Reporters just had a way of drawing you out.

They continued to drive for a few more minutes before she asked hesitantly, "You were at the funeral today, as well? Did you know Detective Martens?"

Brass felt a tightness in his chest. "Yeah. We'd worked together before." He'd braced himself mentally for prying questions about the accident, when he'd offered the ride.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she told him softly. "From the bits I've heard about him, he seemed like a wonderful man."

Brass nodded. He had been surprised when the writer hadn't gone to the funeral with Ecklie. Even though she hadn't known Denny, he figured she would want to get in on the action. Brass was surprised when she didn't continue to quiz him. He concentrated on his driving, occasionally pointing out sights of interest. She listened, making intelligent comments or asking pertinent questions. But for the most part, she seemed happy just to sit quietly.

"You know," he said at length, "you're not what I expected from a media type. You're a lot more...laid back, I guess. Not so...pushy. Not so...nosey." He kept his eyes on the road.

There was a pause, before she replied. There was gentle amusement in her voice. "I'm not with the media, Captain Brass. I'm not a journalist. I'm a novelist."

He turned to see her regarding him with warm, brown eyes.

"Until a month ago, I was a highschool English teacher," she went on. "I studied journalism, briefly, before deciding to major in English. It just...wasn't me. I know that it's an important job, and that there are many dedicated, moral people in that field. But there were too many areas where I had...ethical concerns, I guess you'd say. And I never had the personality for it, either. I'm not much of a go-getter."

Brass had known that the official story was that she was a novelist, but the skeptic inside of him had been unconvinced that Cecilia wasn't actually working undercover for some rag. Or, he had pondered, this book she was supposedly working on, wasn't really going to be a piece of fiction, but a sensational look at the world of forensics, distorting reality in favour of sales. Making caricatures of the people he worked with.

"I'm not planning on doing an ugly expose, or looking to ruin the reputations of the people who are opening their world to me, nor would I betray anyone's trust," she said quietly, seeming to read his thoughts.

Cecilia had turned her head to look at the detective. He drove with his left arm casually draped over the steering wheel, his keen, dark eyes routinely sweeping the road ahead, behind and to the sides. He was a good driver. She felt comfortable and that he had control of the car. She had been surprised that he had offered her a ride, then realized that he had a chivalrous side to him, when he had held open the car door for her. She had found the simple act charming. She was even more surprised now, that he had agreed to drive her home, when she could see that he was suspicious of her.

"You have my word, Captain."

Brass glanced at her. He was pretty good at reading people. He wasn't a top detective or a good interrogator because he took people at their word. But there was an earnestness in Cecilia's smooth, olive features. And her big, chocolate eyes were guileless. Perhaps he had misjudged her. Brass gave a quick grin. "Call me Jim."

When he pulled into one of the visitor's parking spots at her apartment, and Cecilia had bent to retrieve her purse, Brass had hopped out of the car and moved to open the door for her again. She had stepped out, thanking him again for the ride. She was as tall as he was, he noted.

Brass watched her cross the courtyard, skirt the pool, and ascend the steps to the second floor before she paused in front of one of the blue painted doors. It wasn't until he saw the door swing inward, and she began to enter the unit, that he started the car. He saw her look back over her shoulder and wave tentatively at him. He tapped the horn lightly, then backed out.

Cecilia tossed her purse on a chair, slipping off her loafers. The first thing she wanted to do was have a long, hot shower. She was convinced that the lingering scent of the morgue still layered her skin, and clung to the dark waves of her hair.

She was glad that she had been able to have the experience though, as unsettling as it had been. It had been a productive day. She wondered briefly how things were going for Conrad and Sophia with the judge. As she stepped into the tub, and pulled the glass door shut, letting the warm water sluice over her, Cecilia thought about Jim Brass. She wondered how many others felt as he had, that her reasons for being here were less than above board. She considered how best to allay those concerns, so that those she would be spending time with did not feel hindered at their jobs. Then she thought again about _Gruesome Grissom._

While Cecilia washed her hair for a second time, scrubbing her scalp and working the shampoo into a copious lather, mentally composing the notes she would make about her visit to the morgue, she considered again how she could arrange to spend some time with the CSI graveyard shift.


	8. And Then There Was One Ch 8

_Thank you for reading and reviewing this story. I appreciate it. It is fun to think of someone other than myself taking a peak into my personal CSI world. Beaujolais, I am sorry that you had a bad day earlier in the week. It was a bad day for me too. We had to put our German Shepherd, of 11 years, down. Being able to do some writing helped to keep some of the initial sorrow from stinging as much. _

Chapter Eight

The opportunity Cecilia had been waiting for, presented itself just over a week later, at a Saturday evening dinner party at the home of Janice and Ron Kellerman.

The car that the Kellermans had insisted on sending for her, turned out to be a sleek, black limousine. Feeling out of her element, Cecilia had glanced one last time at her reflection in the mirror to the right of the apartment's door. When Janice Kellerman had phoned Cecilia with the suggestion of joining them for an intimate, informal dinner party, Cecilia's first thought had been that she would need to go shopping.

She had packed only sensible clothes, and casual summer wear for her stay. Cecilia knew from her agent, Sally, that the Kellermans lived in a beautiful mansion in the prestigious Lakes area. She suspected that Janice Kellerman's idea of informal might be vastly different from hers. So, Cecilia had gone shopping, checking out some of the fine shops and boutiques that Las Vegas had to offer. In a small store near the University Medical Centre, she had found the dress that she hoped would be appropriate.

Cecilia smiled at her reflection. The short-sleeved, black cocktail dress, with its sweeping, beaded vinework in sequins and silver jewels which refracted the light, and it's asymetrical, ruffled and beaded hemline, had been worth the expense, she decided. She had thought at first that the soft fabric might cling too much, over accentuate her generous curves, but it fell nicely.

She had brushed her dark waves til they gleamed, then swept them back with silver combs, allowing her hair to trail in a narrow cascade down her back. Small diamond studs graced her earlobes. Cecilia had used a minimum of make up. A shimmering, bronzed blush, a claret lipstick, a bit of mocha shadow and some mascara on her long, smoky lashes. She subscribed to the adage that as a woman aged, less was more.

Picking up the beaded, black purse, and locking the door behind her, Cecilia descended to the waiting car.

The sun was still hovering above the horizon, when the limo pulled into the curving, interlocking-brick drive of the Kellerman mansion. The creamy, stucco walls of the three-storey, Spanish style home glowed orange. Window boxes dripped with greenery and colourful tropical flowers. The driver alighted and came around to open the door for Cecilia, and as she thanked him for the ride, he wished her a good evening. Turning away from the vehicle, she advanced nervously towards the house. Two enormous palms, potted in glazed, turquoise planters, graced either side of the low, sweeping steps to the front entry.

Both the Kellermans greeted her at the door. Cecilia was grateful that she'd listened to her instincts and dressed well. Janice Kellerman, a tall, striking brunette, wore a dress of ruby georgette, low cut and with spaghetti straps, that showed off her beautiful figure. Ron Kellerman's attire consisted of neatly pressed. charcoal grey pants, and a fine, dove grey linen shirt. Mayor Kellerman was a few inches shorter than his six foot wife, with a thick but muscular build.

Neither of them looked their age. While Ron Kellerman, pushing sixty, had allowed his curly brown hair to show the grey at his temples, his tanned features were youthful, with only a few tell-tale crows' feet at the corners of his friendly, brown eyes. Janice Kellerman, though Cecilia knew the woman to be in her mid-fifties, had the smooth, taut skin of a much younger woman. Almost too smooth, Cecilia thought, and a bit too taut around the eyes. She suspected Mrs. Kellerman had had at least one cosmetic surgery in her lifetime. She was a beautiful woman, with high cheekbones, and finely arched brows above eyes of china-doll blue.

"Cecilia!" Janice Kellerman enthused. "Welcome to our home. We're so happy to be meeting you at last!" She pulled Cecilia close for a quick embrace. "Sally has told us a lot about you."

"Cecilia, good to meet you," Ron Kellerman echoed. "And to add to what my lovely wife said...welcome to our city, as well!" He reached for her hand, giving it a firm, sincere shake.

Her first impression of the Kellermans was one of sincerity and good-will. As the couple lead her through the immaculate foyer, with gleaming marble floors, and more potted plants, and through to the back of the house, Cecilia glanced at the tasteful decor, and the interesting architecture. Everywhere there was greenery. Some of them, Cecilia imagined, were exceptionally well-done silks, but many of them were living flora. And there were flowers everywhere. Crystal bowls of coloured water with cut blooms floating on their surfaces. Elegant vases with chic arrangements of cut florals. Adding colour and texture to the exquisite and stylish decor.

They stopped at a small alcove, with a long, narrow table against the back wall, beneath a large mirror in a gilded frame. There were a couple of antique armchairs, covered in gold jaquard. A door on the right led into a powder room. Janice Kellerman suggested that Cecilia could leave her evening purse on one of the deep, narrow shelves on the wall opposite the bathroom.

The continued along, through a Great Room with vaulted ceilings, beamed in a pale, washed oak. A large family portrait hung on the wall above a gas fireplace. The Kellermans stood on a sandy beach, two good-looking young men...obviously their sons...whose features reflected the best of both parents, stood on either side of them. Ron Kellerman followed Cecilia's gaze to the portrait. "Those are our sons, Logan and Josh. Logan just started his second year at UNLV, and Josh is in his senior year of high school." His eyes shone with pride.

"They're fine looking young men," Cecilia complimented, and the mayor beamed.

Double, French doors opened onto a stone patio and multi-level pool, looking out over the Lakes community and the water ways themselves, dappled now with crimson and gold. Cecilia stepped out onto the patio enjoying a light breeze that seemed to sweep up from the water. It had been a typical early July day in Las Vegas. Temperatures had hit the high eighties, with moist winds contributing to the humidity. This backyard breeze, fragrant with the abundance of multi-hued flowers that graced window boxes, filled planters, and tumbled over rock walls, heralded the promise that the heat would begin to dissipate as the sun went down, until it settled for the night in the mid-seventy range.

The lyrical sound of a waterfall caught her attention, and Cecilia stared enraptured at the pool. It was integrated into the landscaping, ringed with stone, the walls and bottom of the pool painted dark to mimic a natural body of water. There were three levels; a smaller pool at the top with an outcropping of slate, over which the clear waters tumbled, the middle and largest section, where now floated dozens of white candles, and then another small waterfall, beyond which the structure narrowed and elongated, to curve along the property as a serpentine lap pool.

"I'm glad that we could get together this way," Janice's voice broke into her thoughts. There was a small group gathered around a curving, stuccoed bar, where a young, blond man was pouring drinks. "I thought it would be nice to include some of the people you've been getting to know, and some that you would eventually meet during your time here."

Cecilia had known that Conrad Ecklie and his wife would be in attendance this evening. He stood closest to them now, grinning over the rim of a glass that contained a pale, amber liquid. "Good evening," he greeted. Ecklie was wearing monochromatic cream-coloured pants, a similiarly coloured dress shirt, and a cream tie of raw silk. He looked more relaxed than Cecilia had seen him thus far. "This is my wife, Andie. Andie, Cecilia Laval."

Andie Ecklie was in her mid-forties, average height, slightly plump, with shoulder length light brown hair streaked with golden highlights. A teal-coloured dress made her hazel eyes appear more blue. "It's nice to meet you," she smiled, extending her hand to shake Cecilia's. "How interesting to be here researching a novel! I know that Conrad's happy to be able to help in any way he can."

"It's quite an opportunity," Cecilia said. "And I really appreciate how incredibly helpful he's been. I never expected to be welcomed so openly. I truly admire the job he does." That much at least was true.

Ecklie's eyes went beyond the novelist to the Kellermans, eager to make sure they had heard Cecilia's complimentary remarks.

"Have you had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Robbins yet?" Janice Kellerman was inquiring, gracefully moving beyond the Ecklies to where another middle-aged couple stood. A balding, beared man was passing a glass of white wine to his companion with one hand, while the other leaned on a metal cane for support. Cecilia shook her head. "Dr. Al Robbins is our medical examiner. And we're very fortunate to have him. This is his wife, Elaine. Al, Elaine, this is Cecilia Laval."

Dr. Robbins had greying hair and frank and inquisitive blue eyes. "David was telling me that you and Sophia stopped by, oh, I guess a week or so ago. I'm sorry that I missed you. I'm sure you'll be back again though. Unfortunately, I've got no shortage of work here in Las Vegas." He winked.

Cecilia immediately liked the coroner, with his direct gaze, and gentle, mellifluous voice. His wife, Elaine, a silvery blonde, had an open and honest countenanace. Cecilia had a sense that the Robbins were the kind of people who enjoyed life.

"Now, Al," Ron Kellerman interjected with a hearty laugh, "don't be giving Cecilia the wrong impression of our city! Las Vegas is a wonderful place, to work in, to play in, and to live in. And we've done a lot in the past two years to decrease the crime rate."

Cecilia resisted the tug at the corners of her mouth. Even at a small dinner party in his own home, Ron Kellerman was still aware of his role as mayor. He touched Cecilia's elbow. "May I get you a drink, my dear?" Cecilia requested a glass of dry, red wine.

"I believe you've met our good Sheriff," Ron Kellerman spoke on his return, passing Cecilia a crystal glass, Sheriff Mobley in tow."

"Just once," Cecilia stated lightly. The Sheriff, a gruff man with thinning reddish hair, had come to the lab one day to speak with Conrad Ecklie. Though the interaction had been brief, Cecilia had been left with impression that the sheriff and the day shift supervisor had a lot in common. And none of it good. "Sheriff," she murmured.

"Brian, while we're here among friends," Mobley insisted with an oily grin.

Cecilia stood with the group, sipping her wine, expressing her appreciation for the lovely home of her hosts. She responded to questions about her other novels and her life prior to her appearance in Las Vegas. Cecilia hadn't realized how much she had missed spending time with people in a strictly social atmosphere. Not long after her arrival at the Kellermans', the mayor reached for the pager clipped to his belt and catching his wife's eye informed her that other guests were arriving. Cecilia realized that someone from the gate house was notifying the couple, so that they could greet people at the door.

The Kellermans returned with three guests in tow. Two of them were attractive women in their thirties, one whom Cecilia recognized as the swing shift supervisor Helen Chang. The third was Captain Jim Brass. "We found this suspicious looking character lurking around the grounds," Helen laughed, jabbing a playful elbow into Brass's ribs.

The detective looked like a different person without the suit and tie that Cecilia was accustomed to seeing him in. Dressed casually in olive khakis and a brick red shirt, his attire seemed to lift the sombre veil that normally settled over him.

Cecilia was introduced to the second woman, Helen's partner, a petite red-head named Jennifer Burnham. Brass exchanged a quick greeting, then excused himself to get a drink. Cecilia had spoken to Helen Chang on several occasions in the break room, when shift changes had taken place. She had found that the woman possessed a quirky sense of humour and her boisterous laugh often echoed through the halls of the lab. Her partner, Jennifer, was much shyer than her social butterfly mate.

"Well now, we're just waiting on Gil," Janice Kellerman said lightly. Cecilia raised a dark brow. She hadn't known that the night shift supervisor would be joining them for the dinner party, though it did make sense. She supposed that she had just assumed he would be working. But even supervisors got an occasional night off, she chided herself.

Cecilia had complimented her hostess on all of the flowers, inside and out, and Janice Kellerman had explained modestly that she had a floral business that had branched into a landscaping business as well. Cecilia recognized the name of the franchises, _Stella Flora_, the florist shops, and _Buy the Yard_, a gardening and landscaping business. They were highly successful throughout Nevada and California.

Janice Kellerman spoke proudly about her husband's car dealership. Before he was elected Mayor of Las Vegas, Ron Kellerman had devoted all of his working hours to the success of Kellerman Motors, which dealt in high end, luxury vehicles. Cecilia recalled Sally mentioning that Janice Kellerman was a marketing genuis, and a highly motivated and success driven woman. Sally had hinted that Janice was responsible not only for the success of her own business, but for her husband's as well. And that she was the driving force behind her personable spouse's political advancements from city councillor to mayor.

Three quarters of an hour had passed, and the skies had darkened considerably by the time Ron Kellerman received the page that Gil Grissom had arrived. Cecilia was on her second glass of wine and had been enjoying canapes and other appetizers from a tray passed around by a handsome server who could have been the twin of the man staffing the bar.

The night shift supervisor was apologetic for his lateness. "I was on a conference call with a lab in California. There was a situation with a decomposing DB that required some information regarding the larvae and puparia of _Calliphora. _Apparantly, the putrification process..."

"That's quite all right, Gil," Janice Kellerman cut in with a wave of a well-manicured hand, trying valiantly to hide the look of distaste in her big, blue eyes. "No apologies or explanations necessary." She smiled broadly.

Cecilia was amused by the bewildered look on the scientist's face. It had been apparant that he was eager to share the story. _Gruesome Grissom _indeed! He stood on the top level of the patio for a moment, hands on his hips, shrugging his shoulders before going to stand near Jim Brass.

She overheard the detective's murmured greeting to the CSI. _"Conference call. Larvae and whatever the heck that was. Nice one. Wish I'd thought of that," _Brass complimented in a hushed voice. Cecilia couldn't resist looking at them over her shoulder. Brass was grinning and Gil Grissom was looking back at him reproachfully.

Dinner, served in a monochromatic dining room with creams and crystal, was excellent. Cecilia enjoyed all kinds of foods. The peppery arugula salad with the citrusy dressing was a wonderful start to the meal. An apple and squash soup followed the salad. The main course was creole shrimp and rice, with tender asparagus on the side. Cecilia found herself seated to the left of her hostess, and next to Helen Chang. The food was fabulous, the conversation was enjoyable, and two glasses of wine had tempered any social unease Cecilia might have found in a group where she hadn't known anyone for even quite two weeks.

After a couple of drinks, Brian Mobley, seated across from Cecilia became quite animated. He laid his elbows on the table and leaned towards her, sharing some of the more important or interesting aspects of his job over the years. She listened attentively and nodded politely, though the way his eyes kept dipping to the neckline of her dress, during their dessert of baked Alaska, made her uncomfortable.

"Hey Gil," Jim whispered behind his napkin, stifling his laughter, "the good Sheriff is hitting on the writer."

Grissom looked down the table disinterestedly. He watched the pair for a while. At last he said, "I don't know, seems like he's just being friendly."

Sheriff Mobley had just volunteered to take Cecilia on a guided tour of Las Vegas, any time she wanted.

"Gil, Gil, Gil," Brass shook his head. "With you being so attuned to the intricacies of male-female relationships, it's hard to believe that you've never been married." He rolled his eyes.

Janice Kellerman had pushed back from the table, signaling that dinner was over, and inviting her guests to join her for coffees or apres dinner drinks outside on the patio again. Brass stood up, looking down at Grissom. "Well, as the only other two unattached males, I think one of us has to go rescue the poor woman," he sighed.

Jim strode around the table, stopping behind Mobley's chair. Laying a hand on the other man's shoulder, and leaning towards him, Brass said, "Gil was just asking for some clarification on that last memo, detailing the changes to the release of personal items that had been entered into evidence. You're much better at explaining those kinds of things," Brass flattered the sheriff.

Mobley gave a self-important smile and said to Cecilia in a voice tinged with just the right touch of regret, "You'll have to excuse me, my dear. Duty calls. I think that it's important to always be there for my people, even when I'm not technically working." He set his napkin on the table, then rose to pursue the unwitting Grissom who was heading outside.

Jim winked at a relieved looking Cecilia. She thought that his dark eyes were full of knowing amusement. He said nothing about Mobley though, as he accompanied her back outside.

The opportunity to suggest that she would be interested in working with the graveyard shift, came just as the evening was winding down. Janice Kellerman was telling Cecilia about Gil Grissom, and what an asset it was to the lab to have a forensic entomologist. She mentioned that it added a great deal of prestige to the Las Vegas CSI unit.

Cecilia took the opening to express the idea that she had become more and more certain she wanted to follow. "It's been wonderful, being able to observe Conrad and the others. I've learned a tremendous amount. I have to say, as much as I detest most bugs, Dr. Grissom's expertise, especially as it applies to forensics, is intriguing. I would welcome the opportunity to observe the graveyard shift some time. I would imagine they get some interesting cases in the wee hours, as well. And coming from a Monday to Friday, nine to five job, I think it would be interesting to see what the shift work is like too."

Janice smiled understandingly. "Gil's a bit of an...introvert, and kind of stuck in his ways, but I think that can be arranged. Let's go talk to him." She linked an arm in Cecilia's and they made their way to where the scientist was talking with Captain Brass, Dr Robbins, and Al's wife, Elaine. "Gil, Cecilia was just saying that she doesn't see how bugs can possibly help solve crimes. I think that you're much better qualified to explain that than I am." She smiled brightly at the scientist, and gave the novelist's arm a small squeeze of apology for her duplicity.

Grissom turned his body to include the women into the group. He stared at Cecilia for a moment, one eyebrow raised, while his nostrils flared. "They aren't bugs, they're insects and other arthropods," Gil corrected. "And if you understand them, and their life cycles, they can help you solve not only cases of murder, but suicide, rape and abuse. You might not see them all, or often, but it's important to understand that our world is really an arthropod world. We come into contact with them all of the time, but where this becomes important for forensics, is that they're carrion feeders."

Cecilia watched, entranced at the scientist's blue eyes glinted and his movements became more animated, as he warmed to his subject. She tilted her head inquisitively to encourage him to continue.

"Insects and arthropods have a predictable life cycle. _Calliphoridae, _blowflies, usually arrive first. We can use our knowledge of them to learn a lot about a corpse. How long it's been there. Whether or not it's been moved. Of course, there are lots of variables that need to be taken into account, such as season, temperature and climate, whether or not the corpse has been exposed or covered by soil or water.

"We can sometimes tell if the corpse has been moved if we find insects or arthropods that are specific to locations other than the dump site.

"Sometimes," he continued, "we can track suspects, vehicles, or goods, with the help of insects. If we find insects, or pieces of them, and we know the biology of the species, especially if there are more than a few and there is some overlap of the areas they are indigenous to, we can narrow down the locale they were picked up in."

"That sounds fascinating in theory," Cecilia said sincerely. "It's kind of hard to imagine though, how that would actually apply to real cases."

"Listen," Grissom suggested, "if you want to come in a bit earlier one morning before shift change, I can better illustrate what I mean. I've got some wonderful books and magazines you could borrow..."

"I know," Janice Kellerman put in smoothly, as though the idea had just occured to her, "why doesn't Cecilia just spend some time with the night shift!"

Grissom struggled to maintain his composure. "Oh...well..." he mumbled uncertainly.

"That sounds wonderful!" Cecilia enthused.

"What sounds wonderful?" Conrad Ecklie asked, senses alert, moving closer to the group.

"Cecilia's going to be following night shift for a while. Gil's going to show her his bugs. Just for a change of pace," Janice said lightly, to ensure there would be no perceived snub from Ecklie's end.

"Well, the hours are horrible..." Gil stated, then his voice trailed off again.

"I'm sure I'll adjust," Cecilia assured him. "Thank you, I appreciate how co-operative everyone has been!" She beamed, making sure to include Conrad Ecklie with her words and her smile. She did not notice that after her gaze shifted, Ecklie's eyes blazed at the other supervisor.

"Well, you might as well start next week then," Janice Kellerman said with finality. "You're off for the weekend, and back in Monday night, Gil?"

"Uh...yeah," Gil told her. He had a slightly befuddled look on his face, created by the tight knitting of his salt and pepper brows.

Then Janice Kellerman was leading Cecilia away to admire the night time view, and the way the lights of the surrounding abodes shimmered in aquatic rainbow on the water's surface.

Al Robbins looked at Jim Brass, and Jim looked back at him, and then the two of them were grinning broadly. "You walked right into that one, old buddy," Brass chuckled. "You never even saw it coming."

"Janice Kellerman is one smooth operator," Al Robbins said, in a voice laced with respect. "And Miss Laval is no slouch either. You got tag-team hornswoggled!" His blue eyes twinkled with merriment.

Gil looked defeated. Not only was Ecklie ticked, and probably already scheming some way to 'get even', but now Gil and his team were saddled with the pesky novelist. "I guess it's too late to put in for those fourteen weeks of vacation I have owed to me," he sighed miserably, as Jim Brass rubbed his shoulder consolingly.


	9. Chapter 9

_My deepest apologies for the delay in this story. First. real-life intervened, and then I lost my momentum. Thank you to those who've expressed continued support and interest, despite the lengthy wait. Hopefully everyone won't have forgotten the plotline to this point! Thanks for reading. Cathy._

Fixing a vestige of a smile on his face, Gil Grissom pushed into the break room. "Good, you're all here," he began briskly. "For the next little while, we're going to be having a guest with us, and the mayor and the sheriff have assured her of our co-operation. Cecilia Laval, a novelist, will be doing some research on forensics."

Warrick Brown leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ecklie's pet writer? With us? Are you serious, Grissom?"

Gil nodded sharply. "Apparently we're taking turns."

"This is so bogus!" Sara Sidle spoke up, while her co-workers groaned their dissatisfaction. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a sullen frown. "How are we supposed to work with some writer getting in the way? You know those defense attornies are always looking for some excuse to throw out our evidence! I can just imagine the field day they'll have when they find out we've had some civilian tromping around crime scenes and maybe contaminating evidence." The brunette's dark eyes flashed her disgust.

"Sara's got a good point," Nick Stokes said, running a hand through his dark hair. "I don't think this is a good idea."

"Good idea or not, we weren't given any choice in the matter," Gil replied in a clipped tone. He averted his eyes from those of his team, as he recalled how easily Janice Kellerman had set him up to babysit her friend. "And the department is to conduct itself with the utmost professionalism and to extend every courtesy. Miss Laval won't be handling evidence or getting to close to any crime scenes, I've been assured."

There was a pregnant pause. Greg Sanders, who was standing against a bank of cupboards at the rear of the room, sipping his freshly brewed Blue Hawaiian, cleared his throat. "Is this Cecilia hot?" he inquired hopefully.

Catherine Willows glanced back over her shoulder at him, shaking her head in exaspiration. "Greg..." she groaned.

"Cause if she's hot," Greg continued unabashedly, "well, maybe she can work in the lab with me..." His voice trailed off, and he grinned widely.

"You are so predictable," Sara grumbled, and though her voice was tinged with irritation, her lips twitched with fond amusement.

"Hey, I just want you guys to know that I'm willing to take one for the team." Greg gave her an exaggerated wink as he mimicked a batter hitting a ball.

"While I appreciate your...altruism," Gil acknowledged sardonically, "Cecilia is here to work with the CSIs. I've already decided that she's going to be accompanying Catherine." He avoided looking at his senior CSI, and instead looked at a point on the back wall.

"Well that's news to me," Catherine said, straightening in her chair. "Do I get any say in the matter."

"Actually," Gil replied lightly, "no." His blue eyes sought hers and he gazed at her plaintively. "You're so good with people," he told her. "You're the natural choice."

"What a load of bull!" Catherine snapped, but Gil saw the resignation settle on her lovely features.

Sara stared across the table at her co-worker, fighting back the jealousy. It was true, she knew. Catherine _was_ good with people. She had an innate skill at connecting with them in a way that made them feel comfortable with her. Sara didn't envy Catherine having to drag the writer around with her all night. Towards that end, Sara was relieved that the burden hadn't fallen to her.

But the admiration that deepened Grissom's voice when he had remarked at how good Catherine was with people, had been sincere. Grissom recognized this strength in the blonde, and it was one that impressed him. Moreso, likely, since it was a trait that he didn't share. Grissom hadn't been patronizing Catherine. Her way wasn't his, it was a gentler, more thoughtful and empathetic understanding of people. And it was something that Gil respected about Catherine, not just as a co-worker, but as a person.

Grissom would never think of pairing the writer up with her, Sara was certain. And though she was grateful for that fact, the realization that underlay it, stung. And with that pricking of her pride, came the envy that was always just below the surface. That Catherine was everything that she was not. Soft. Feminine. Sexy. Personable. And as if that wasn't enough, Catherine was also everything that Sara was. Smart too, and good at her job.

"Better you than me!" Sara laughed, hoping that she didn't sound as harsh and bitter to the others in the room, as she did to her own ear.

Warrick clasped his hands behind his head, his long frame relaxed. He smiled sympathetically at Catherine. "Maybe it won't be so bad. I heard from Sophia that Laval's okay."

There was a soft tap on the glass window, as Cecilia Laval appeared in the doorway behind Gil. "Hello,"she greeted.

Warrick and Gil exchanged a quick glance, wondering how long Cecilia had been there and if she'd heard any of the preceding conversation. Gil looked back over his shoulder at her, then moved forward into the room, inclining his chin for her to follow. "Cecilia, I'd like you to meet the team."

Cecilia sensed some tension in the room, and figured that at least part of it probably had something to do with her. She could understand the reluctance of the hard-working CSIs to have someone from the 'outside' following them around, and getting in their way. The work that they did was so important and subject to such incredible scrutiny. People's lives and freedom often hung in the balance of whatever evidence the forensic scientists could discover and interpret. They often were the difference between a strong case and a weak one, and between justice prevailing, or a guilty person going free.

"Hi, I'm Nick Stokes!" The dark-haired man with the dimples moved forward immediately, extending a hand to shake Cecilia's. His grip was firm and confident, his smile welcoming. "I know you were out at the site when we found the Durango, but we really weren't formally introduced. Welcome to the night shift."

He had a soft, Texas drawl, and a charming smile that set Cecilia at ease. She remembered him, of course. He was a nice-looking man. When he had been working in the field that day, Nick Stokes had had a quiet intensity about him. Even though she suspected that he would rather not have her here, he was behaving with the southern courtesy that she imagined had been ingrained in him from childhood.

One by one, Gil introduced her to the others, as she slowly moved around the room. Cecilia sensed the strongest resentment at her prescence from the dark-haired Sara. Though the young woman was not overtly rude or unwelcoming, there was no warmth in either her dark eyes, or the barest curling of her lips that had been meant to pass for a smile. And Sara hadn't offered her hand either. She sat with her arms crossed over her chest.

The young man with the blond, spiked hair, introduced to her as Greg Sanders, who worked in the DNA lab, poured Cecilia a cup of coffee without asking, and handed it to her. "This is my own, private blend," he grinned good-naturedly. "There's sugar in the cupboard and cream in the fridge. I know you're not used to working nights, and trying to get your body to adjust to the change can be a...pain." His slight hesitation hinted that Greg had been intending to use another word, but was tempering his language for her benefit.

Cecilia thanked him as she accepted the pro-offered mug, revelling in the fragrant steam that wafted outward. It would be hard to adjust to the shift change, she knew. She'd been a nine to fiver for all of her life. She had tried to sleep during the day in preparation for this night's commencement of her time with the graveyard shift. But sleep had been sporadic. She hoped that the excitement of being here would be enough to forestall any embarassing nodding off in the early hours before dawn. Coffee was just what she needed to start the night off right.

"Now, just so you know," Greg cautioned, waving a finger at her. "This is a special introductory offer only, so don't be thinking that you're going to be drinking my Blue Hawaiian on a regular basis." He winked at her, and grinned, his teeth white and even. With the colourful, tropical shirt beneath his white lab coat, and the slightly spiked, coloured hair, he gave the impression of a California surfer, albeit one surrounded by desert. Greg Sanders was clearly an individual, and eminently likable.

"Laval," Nick said consideringly. "Is that a French name?" His dark eyes held polite interest.

Cecilia turned so that her back was to the counter, and she was facing outward into the break room. She sipped the black coffee, nodding her head shyly. She always felt a bit ill at ease in a group of people that she didn't know, especially being the centre of interest. It was even more difficult with the knowledge that in a way, she was an intruder here. She raised her head, and fixed her eyes on Nick, sensing him to be the most accepting of the CSIs. "Yes, the name is French. My father was Canadian. I'm Metis." She sipped again, predicting the polite but blank gazes that accompanied the pronouncement, readying to explain.

For the first time, Gil showed true interest and animation. "Metis?" He took a step closer, his blue eyes keen. "Originally, the Metis were from the Red River Settlement in Canada. What would later be known as the province of Manitoba. They were the children of the early settlers, and trappers, French, and British, who married the Native women, mostly Cree and Ojibwa." Cecilia nodded for him to continue. "An entire new culture was born, as these children married among themselves. Not entirely Native and not entirely European, but an unique blend of both."

Gil repeated the information from memory, without hesitation. "The Metis were the natural intermediaries between the trading companies and the Native peoples in the area. In the mid to latter parts of the 1800s, when many of the aboriginal peoples in the U.S. were being involved in wars of extermination, Metis people in Canada were going east to university with non-natives, and studying to be, among other things, Jesuit priests and lawyers. They worked hard to retain their culture and their rights." He paused, his head inclined to one side, as he studied Cecilia Laval. "It's a wonderful, rich heritage, integral to the history of Canada, and by extension, North America."

She accepted the compliment, a soft smile lighting her naturally tanned countenance. "And one that is rarely known, even by many Canadians, from what I understand." Cecilia studied the supervisor's earnest features for a moment. "I'm impressed," she admitted. Growing up, going to school, she had never heard the Metis mentioned in an American textbook.

Greg, who had never even heard the term 'Metis' before, and whose jaw had dropped as Grissom easily recountered a brief history of Cecilia's paternal ancestors, shook his head in wonderment. "When I get on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire', Grissom man, _you_ are gonna be my phone-a-friend!" Greg cocked his hand in the shape of a pistol, firing an imaginary bullet at his boss. Cecilia's lyrical laughter rang out. "I tell ya, there is _nothing _that this man doesn't know!" Greg stated, awe-struck. This provoked murmured agreement and good-natured jibes from the other CSIs. Then the young man excused himself to begin his work in the lab.

"I went to college with a guy who was Metis, born in Manitoba," Grissom explained. He queried Cecilia breifly about her native heritage, which had been Cree. Just as she had discovered the night of the party, it was apparent that while Gil Grissom was not the most accomplished speaker in a more casual social situation, that he could speak eloquently and with passion on specific topics of which he had knowledge. He had a formidable memory, and a sharp mind behind blue eyes that were normally veiled.

Eventually, the conversation wound down, and Gil seemed to retreat again, deeper within himself. The tone and timbre of his voice changed, deepened, and he stepped back, withdrawing not just emotionally but physically.

"I've arranged for you to work with Catherine, Cecilia," Gil said at last, back to the brusque and business-like boss. "I was just about to hand out tonight's assignments." He pulled a chair back from the sleek, modern table and settled into in.

Cecilia took an empty chair next to Catherine Willows, silenting sending up a prayer of gratitude that she hadn't been paired up with Sara Sidle. The strawberry-blonde smiled. Cecilia was struck by how beautiful the other woman was. For a moment, the novelist felt big and awkward next to the petite scientist. She shrugged off the temporary sense of inferiority. She had lived long enough, and gained enough confidence in herself, that she no longer was plagued with the youthful angst of comparing oneself to others and coming out lacking.

Cecilia noted how different Gil Grissom's style was to Conrad Ecklie's. While Ecklie had insisted on showing Cecilia around the CSIs world himself, and had seemed almost proprietorial about it, Grissom clearly prefered to have Cecilia out of his hair. He was not interested in any of the glory that she knew Ecklie imagined might be gained from association with someone in her profession.

His style in dealing with his subordinates was markedly different too. While there was clearly a respect of and deference towards Grissom from the other CSIs, there was a sense that they were all equals. Input seemed expected and encouraged, from everything to who should work which assignments, to how the details in those cases should be prioritized. Clearly, the final call was Grissom's, but there was none of the authoritarian condescension she had observed from Ecklie.

Catherine was going to begin the evening by running finger prints lifted from the scene of a liquor store robbery. The young, male clerk had been severely beaten by a lone gunmen. Grainy surveillance tapes had proved useless, so Catherine was in the midst of the laborious process of isolating prints, excluding those of employees, and running the remainder through AFIS in the hopes of getting a hit. Cecilia had learned from Ecklie that AFIS was the acronym for the Automated Fingerprint Indentification Systems that law enforcement agencies throughout the country used.

Catherine had just stepped from the breakroom, Cecilia behind her, when her cell phone began to ring. Grabbing it from where it was attached to her leather belt, she flipped open the screen, glanced at the caller ID, and brought the phone to her ear. "Hey, Brass," she answered, continuing down the hall, her slim hips swaying beneath the chocolate coloured denim of her jeans.

Catherine stopped so abruptly that Cecilia almost bumped into her. "You got the S.O.B.?" Her voice had an icy edge. "I'm on my way." She snapped the phone shut again, and turned to Catherine, her mouth set in a grim line. "Okay, the fingerprint evidence will have to wait. Janey, she's part of the lab, is working on it also, so I'll just let her know she'll have to continue on her own." Catherine increased her pace, speaking to Cecilia over her shoulder. "That was Captain Brass. They've apprehended a suspect in a case we've been working. A real scumbag." The smaller woman shook her head as though to clear it of unpleasant thoughts, her layered red-gold hair bouncing across her shoulders. "I'll tell you about it on the way over."

After pausing briefly in the doorway of another room, and notifying the middle-aged woman who sat at a computer terminal of her change in plans, Catherine scooted around the corner and down another hallway to Gil Grissom's office. "Grissom!" she called excitedly, her blue eyes wide. "We've got that dirtbag from the Palmateer case. A patrol officer picked him up for a drunk and disorderly, ran a search and found out that he's in violation of parole and wanted for questioning in connection with my case. He's in lock up right now, and Brass is waiting to interrogate him til I get there." There were bright spots of colour on her finely chiselled cheekbones, and her anticipation was palpable.

While Catherine had been speaking, Cecilia's eyes had quickly swept the entomologist's inner sanctum. There was no doubt that this was a man whose passion was bugs. Grissom had raised his head from the textbook he had been studying. He had a slightly preoccupied look, the stereotypical absent-minded professor, Cecilia thought. "Okay," Gil nodded. He chewed the left corner of his lip for a moment, as if sensing that something more was required of him. "That's great," he amended. "You're sure he's the guy, and now you can get the evidence to prove it."

"We're going to nail his butt to the wall," Catherine predicted forcefully. To Cecilia she said, "Let's go. This is what it's all about!"


	10. Chapter 10

_Thank you for your continued support and for taking the time to read and review my story._

_Warning: This chapter contains mature situations that might be upsetting to sensitive readers. Thank you._

"So, Mikey, this time you've been a _really_ bad boy, and this time you're going away for a long, _long_ time." Jim Brass sat in the chair opposite the suspect, his elbows on the scarred surface of the metal table. The reasonable, upbeat tone of his voice, and the fixed smile on his craggy features, were in juxtaposition to the narrowing of dark eyes that seethed with anger and disgust.

The suspect slouched back in his chair, his lanky frame relaxed, his long legs crossed at the ankles. He was no stranger to the inside of a cop shop. Michael Edward Strickland had a rap sheet for a variety of mostly petty offenses, including public nuisance, break and enter, receipt of stolen merchandise, driving while intoxicated, and domestic assault. He was thirty years old, and had thus far been successful in avoiding any real time behind bars. Not due to any cleverness on his part, but the result of an over-burdened justice system that had more offenders than it had room to house them.

The judge that had presided over his last case, the domestic assault trial where Strickland had been charged with beating up his then girlfriend and breaking her jaw, had decided that much of Michael's problems stemmed from his alcohol usage. Strickland had served four months of actual time for that incident, and had been ordered to undergo drug and alcohol counselling. One of the conditions of his parole three months ago had involved mandatory attendance of AA meetings, and abstaining from the consumption of alcohol. Strickland had agreed to the conditions in exchange for an early release.

He rubbed a hand over his passably good-looking features, then up through the shock of greasy, blond hair that tumbled over his forehead. Strickland knew that he'd messed up. He shouldn't have gone to Andy's Bar for a few drinks, but the detective sitting opposite him was just yanking his chain in saying that he'd be sent up for a long time for the parole violation.

Strickland knew that there were a lot worse felons out there..._really_ bad boys...and the State of Nevada wasn't going to issue a small-time guy like him an extended vacation at one of their pens, when there was already no more room at the inn. He wasn't even drunk, he'd just had a few to get a little buzz going. His high had already worn off for the most part. A quick glance at a clock high on the wall let him know that it was now going on 1 a.m., and over an hour since he'd downed his last tequila.

His public defender, the chunky black broad in the grey suit, had agreed that he was fit for questioning. Strickland knew there was a very slim chance they'd send him back to the slammer for the parole violation. But he wasn't worried. He had a bargaining chip. Michael knew the location of a new chop shop that had sprung up in the past month, and that was responsible for a recent string of high-end vehicle thefts. There had even been a few related carjackings, that had tourists worried and the mayor pissed off. He'd have to high tail it out of Vegas once he ratted, but that was okay with Strickland.

Unless this _wasn't _about the drinking, and the ensuing altercation with that pansy who'd been giving Michael the eye all night from across the bar...

Strickland shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment, and tried to stare down the middle-aged cop. He rubbed his right fist, where red, raised welts were already angry splashes of colour across his pale skin. Something about the intensity of the other man's gaze disturbed Strickland, and he dropped his own eyes to the worn, tiled floor.

"Yeah, you know what I'm talking about, don't you...Mikey?" Jim Brass continued conversationally. "You're the worst kind of scum there is. The scum that hurts children. You're a sick son of a..." Brass paused to glance at the attorney, "...gun. Your luck's run out, Pal. No more leniency. This time they're gonna lock you up and throw away the key." He let Strickland consider that for a moment. "And the other guys, your new room mates, they don't take kindly to animals who abuse kids. They have their own system of...justice." Brass savoured the thought, while taking a deep breath to stem his rising fury.

Catherine Willows, who had remained standing near the two-way glass when the suspect was brought in, watched intently. Strickland had given her a lecherous once-over when he'd entered the room, that had made her skin crawl. Every maternal fibre of her being had resounded with hatred and revulsion.

"I don't know what yer talkin' about," Strickland mumbled, shifting in the chair again and refusing to meet the detective's eyes. He swallowed convulsively, his adam's apple bobbing against the new tightness in his throat.

"Oh no?" Brass asked with seeming geniality. "How about I refresh your memory." He flipped open the case file that was on the table in front of him, though he already knew it's contents by heart. Brass felt a pang as he looked down at the picture of the frightened young girl. She had a waif-life, ephemeral quality. Big, blue eyes. Pale, delicate features. Her long dark hair fell forward across her thin, barely developed chest. The dark smudge at the left corner of her mouth was the beginning of a nasty bruise, and her lower lip was split at the centre. Dried droplets of her blood stained the thin, white t-shirt she had been wearing.

Brass shifted the photograph to the side, glancing up to see if Strickland was watching. The man was studiously avoiding Brass's activities though, and staring fixedly at his left hand, picking the cuticles. The next photograph was of the bruising around the girl's slender wrists. The one after that, of an abrasion high on her right, inner thigh. Brass could feel the blood pounding in his temples, and he willed back the red mist that threatened to envelope all rational thought. _Carly Palmateer. _Just twelve years old. _The sick bastard!_

"You hurt that little girl. You raped her. Just a baby. In her own home. You were an adult she trusted, and you abused that trust in the worst possible way." Brass spoke in short, clipped sentences, trying to stem the rising tide of anger. These were the cases that affected him the most. That ones that involved the children.

"What girl? What are you talkin' about? You're wrong man, I never hurt no kid," Strickland whined plaintively. He looked up at his lawyer for help, then away from the disgust in her warm, brown eyes.

Brass suddenly slapped the table with the flat open palm of his right hand, causing it to reverberate and almost startling Strickland out of his chair. "_Carly Palmateer, _Mikey!" he announced, raising his voice for the first time. "Your girlfriend's kid. Sweet little twelve year old!" Brass pressed both palms against the table top, resisting the urge to just reach across and throttle Strickland. An action like that would cost him his career, of course. And possibly his freedom. But oh...it would be so worth it. Brass tried to hold onto the knowledge of what the hardened cons in a maximum security prison would do once they found out why Strickland had joined them.

"There's some kinda mistake," Strickland insisted petulantly. "Somethin' happen to Carly?" He was trying to gauge just how much the cop knew and how much was speculation. Michael had threatened to kill the kid's mom, that loser Lisa, if the girl said anything. He was sure Carly had believed him, and he didn't think she'd blab.

"Where you been the last two days, Mikey?" Brass queried calmly, ignoring the protestations and the question. "Lisa Palmateer says you just lit out. You were shacking up together, but she hasn't seen you since Saturday." Brass inclined his head. "You didn't show up for work today, either. That's a violation of your parole too."

Uniformed officers had gone to the auto detailing shop where Strickland worked, only to be told that he hadn't come in and he hadn't called. His boss, and the owner of the business, a muscle-bound, tattooed and bald-headed ex-con named Luke Upton, occasionally hired men out of prison to apprentice at his shop. He knew how difficult it could be to make a fresh start, and knew that having a trade and the self-esteem and opportunity for income that it provided, often made the difference between the success and failure of rehabilitation.

Upton was a no-nonsense but fair employer. He'd been royally ticked when Strickland hadn't shown for work, and was even more disgruntled when he knew the police were looking for the man for questioning in regards to a recent crime. He'd promised to call the cops if Strickland turned up. Flexing his powerful biceps, he even promised to personally hold him til someone could get there to take Strickland off of his hands. Upton had no patience for guys that had been given a chance and then screwed it up. Luke took it personally that Strickland hadn't bothered to call in, and said that unless that was because Michael was laid up in a hospital bed somewhere, his job was history.

Strickland shrugged. "I had some thinkin' to do. Had to look for a new place to stay, too. I left the dumb broad," he explained. "She was a freakin' ice queen. Her and her two brats weren't worth my time."

"You raped that little girl and then you took off," Brass asserted coldly.

"Hey man, if somethin' happened to Carly, that's a damn shame, but _I _didn't..."

Brass interrupted. "She says you did, Mikey." He stared across the table, waiting the other man out.

"Well then she's a lyin' little bitch!" Strickland insisted. "She's such a 'ho anyways..."

The words were barely out of Michael's mouth before the detective had vaulted nimbly from his own chair, kicking it behind him where it slammed forcefully into the wall before careening over and sprawling to the floor with a resounding clatter. Brass was across the table, his face pressed close to the suspect's, one hand bunched around the collar of the man's shirt. He could smell the liquor and the halitosis that comprised Strickland's breath, exhaling raggedly from the stupified oval of his lips.

Catherine moved towards the table, understanding the myriad of emotions that were raging through Brass. She couldn't let him compromise the case though.

_Carly Palmateer. _Catherine owed it to the girl to make sure they had an airtight case against this monster who had abused her. She was transported back to Saturday night, and the call that had come in about a rape case. She'd driven to the hospital, where she'd found the victim in the ER. A child, not even in her teens, sat on the edge of a hospital bed. Thin, coltish legs dangled from beneath the hem of the green hospital gown. Her face had been buried against the ample chest of one of the hospital's janitorial staff. Catherine had been confused, and angry that in some misguided effort to comfort, the woman might be compromising any trace evidence that remained on the girl.

Catherine had learned that Lisa Palmateer was the the child's mother. Palmateer had recently started working at the hospital after moving herself and her two daughters to Vegas six months ago. She was on the night shift, and had been mopping floors in the oncology ward when Carly had stumbled out of an elevator, disoriented and in shock, her seven-year old sister in tow. She'd had on a t-shirt that was spattered with blood, while more blood seeped down her thighs below her denim skirt.

Lisa Palmateer had dropped the mop and rushed her daughter down to the emergency room. One of the physicians who was on confirmed the girl that had been sexually assaulted. Carly was suffering from a couple of deep, vaginal lacerations, one of which would require stitching. She was given the Morning After Pill, even though she had not yet begun her menses. After much cajoling, she had tearfully admitted that her mother's boyfriend, Michael Strickland, had been the one who had raped her.

He'd made her shower and clean up the traces of the assault with a douche. Then after she'd struggled into a fresh shirt and skirt, he'd threatened her mother's life if she told anyone what had happened. Then he'd taken some cash that her mother had saved and stashed in a cannister in a cupboard, and left. No longer feeling safe there, and worried the Michael might come back and hurt her little sister the way he had hurt her, Carly Palmateer had changed her sibling out of pajamas and they had begun the journey from the apartment. Barely aware of the blood that ran down her legs, Carly had walked her frightened sister the thirteen blocks from their home to the hospital where their mother worked.

Child Protective Services had been called, and the younger girl, Jenna, had been taken into custody pending an investigation.

Despite the efforts to obliterate his DNA, the attacker had left semen behind. Catherine had handed her sexual assault kit to one of the nurses on duty, whose swab had recovered trace amounts. Catherine had scraped the girl's fingernails for any evidence that had been transfered during a struggle. She would search the apartment later.

While these procedures were carried out, the girl's mother sat in the corner of the room, her fists curled into balls, her fingernails digging deep crevices in her palms, her doughy face pale. Catherine stole glances at the woman, fighting back her irritation. How many cases had she worked where mom's boyfriend had raped, or abused, or sometimes even killed, her child? Usually these were men who weren't exactly pillars of the community either, but men with violent or criminal histories.

When Catherine had first started working as a CSI, she had found herself bearing almost more malice towards the women, then she did towards their partners who had committed the heinous acts. She couldn't understand why the women stayed with men who were physically abusive, or who were addicted to alcohol or illegal drugs. It was their jobs as mothers to first and foremost protect their children.

The longer that she had worked, and the more cases she had been involved with, the more sympathetic Catherine had become. Though she rarely found a situation where she felt the women should be absolved of all responsibility, she had grown to understand the vicious cycles of poverty, abuse, the lack of education and the abscence of support that over the years drained the women, and stripped their self-esteem and their confidence. Leaving them...and their children...easy prey for men who were the dregs of society.

Having been judged by others in her own life, and knowing how unfair those judgements had been, she had struggled to give these women the benefit of the doubt and to accept that in many situations they were just as much victims as their children. Once she had had Lindsey, however, Catherine had found herself battling her intolerance again. No matter how bad things were, she couldn't understand a mother allowing a man to abuse her children, just because she felt they needed his financial contribution, or because the woman was afraid to be alone.

"I knew something wasn't right," Lisa Palmateer whispered to no one in particular. Catherine had swung her head to look at the woman. Lisa Palmateer was only 27, Catherine had learned, but she looked at least a decade older. She was short and obese, with thin, dark hair that hung limply just to her shoulders. The buttons on her uniform strained to contain her bossom. Some overweight women carried their excess well, but not Lisa Palmateer. She was an unattractive woman, Catherine had to admit, with bad skin and even worse teeth. "There was nothin' I could put my finger on, but somethin' just seemed...off."

She raised her head then and stared at Catherine. "Michael...he seemed like a good guy, at first. He had a steady job. And he didn't do drugs, and hardly ever would drink." She shrugged her beefy shoulders, and her voice took on a self-pitying quality that grated Catherine's nerves. "I been alone for a long time. The girls' daddy left when Jenna was just born. Just took off one day, and I ain't seen him since. We come to Vegas, and got a crappy apartment. But I got this good job. I was figurin' to move the girls before too long."

She paused, casting dull grey eyes around the antiseptic room. "I ain't that old. I get lonely, ya know." Her eyes narrowed bitterly as she took in Catherine's classic beauty. "You wouldn't know. Bet you got more men than you know what to do with. I know I ain't much to look at. But that don't mean I don't deserve a man to hold me." She leaned forward in her chair, as though daring Catherine to contradict her. Lisa Palmateer sighed. "I didn't like the way he was lookin' at Carly lately. Michael." Tears begin to course down her cheeks. "But I never really thought he'd hurt my baby." She had buried her face in her hands then and wept.

Carly Palmateer had been laying back in the bed, the sheet pulled up to her chest. She watched her mother stoically, her face impassive, though her lower lip quaked. Catherine had felt a mixture of pity and disgust for Lisa Palmateer. Over and over this cycle would continue to play out. Next time it would be another child, and another woman, and another boyfriend. But the end result would be the same. The child would pay the price for his or her mother's desperation.

But Michael Strickland...he would be held accountable for his abhorrent attack on Carly. Catherine had promised herself that. That much, at least, she could do.

Catherine was reaching now towards Jim Brass' shoulder, readying to pull him away from the suspect, despite her conflicted feelings of wishing Brass would knock the stuffing out of Strickland. At the same that she extended her hand, the public defender, Mara Cummings, was uttering a verbal caution. "Captain..."

"She's a twelve year old child, and you violated her and stole her innocence you walking bag of excrement," Brass hissed, his dark eyes boring into the frightened, pale blue orbs of the other man. He heard Mara's warning, as he felt Catherine's small but firm grip on his shoulder.

Brass brought his mouth next to Strickland's ear and whispered so softly that his icy words were audible only to Strickland. "When you get to the pen, Mikey, those cons are gonna have a field day with you. First, they're gonna give you a taste of what you did to that girl. They'll take turns. Then they're gonna tear you to pieces with their bare hands. It will be unlike anything you can even imagine, and long before they're done, you're going to be praying you were already dead." Releasing Strickland's shirt, Brass shoved the man back in his chair, then stepped back quickly as though he'd been burned.

"Police brutality!" Strickland squealed, rolling his eyes. "You saw that!" he gasped to his attorney. "He damn near killed me!"

Mara Cummings held little sympathy for her client. She would do her best for him as his court appointed attorney, as she had pledged to do, but she had nothing but aversion to a man who would do what Michael Strickland had done. While Jim Brass' actions had been bordering on an infringement of her client's rights, Strickland hadn't been hurt and she wasn't inclined to make an issue of the incident.

"Oh stop it, Michael," she said coldly. "You're fine. Captain Brass didn't harm you." Strickland looked wounded as he realized there would be no sympathy for the one person who was advocating for him.

Jim pulled the folder towards himself, and rifled through for another sheet of paper, throwing it down onto the table in front of their suspect. "That's a warrant for a DNA sample. Ms. Willows here is going to take that right now. I'd co-operate with her fully, if I was you."

Catherine stepped forward, setting her case on the table and unsnapping the lid. She grabbed one of the tubes, tore off the wrapper, and opened the top. "Open your mouth please, Mr. Strickland."

Strickland looked at his lawyer. "Do I have to do this? My DNA is gonna be all over the apartment and the kid. I was livin' there, for chrissakes." She simply nodded.

"We won't be comparing the sample to that which can transfer during casual contact, Mr. Strickland, " Catherine notified him, unable to resist a smug smile. "We have a semen sample taken from the victim. You see, you can't just wash out all traces of ejaculate that way."

Strickland looked shocked. He hadn't expected the kid to betray him, but just in case, he'd made her wash up really good. He wasn't a stupid guy, and he watched t.v. and he knew about DNA. Now the pretty cop was saying that it hadn't been enough. That they were still going to link him to the rape.

"Detective!" Strickland said desperately, zeroing in on Brass. "I wanna make a deal. I got some info about a chop shop that you guys have been lookin' all over for. I know where it is and who's behind it, and about those carjackings and everything. I'll trade you that info!" His eyes shone with unnatural brightness, and his hands gripped the table's edge. The cop's whispered words resounded in Strickland's head and caused gooseflesh to ripple across his skin and for his testicles to draw tight into his groin.

"Just how stupid are you, Mikey?" Jim Brass queried tiredly. Then unable to stand the sight of his suspect any longer, he turned on heel and stalked out of the room. Behind him, Catherine was asking Strickland to 'say aww'. He nodded to the uniform just outside the door, and the other cop stepped into the room to be with the CSI.

Brass strode angrily through the hall, turning the corner abruptly and almost barreling into Cecilia Laval. He had forgotten, for the last few minutes, that the writer had been outside, watching the interrogation. His dark eyes stared into hers, then he glanced through the one-way glass into the room where Catherine was closing up her kit. He looked back at Cecilia, impassively, his face devoid of guilt or shame.

He wondered, briefly, if the incident would be reported on the morning news. Overblown and distorted. Oh sure, he knew that Cecilia wasn't a reporter, but a civilian probably wouldn't understand what had just occured. And might feel compelled to see that an investigation was launched and to make sure that he, Brass, wasn't some rogue cop who went around battering suspects and infringing on their precious rights.

Perhaps she'd simply mention what she had witnessed to the Kellermans, expressing her shock at the unprofessionalism of one of Las Vegas' Finest. That would probably rate a private chat with the Sheriff. Maybe some kind of notation on Brass' file. Possibly a visit to the department's shrink, so he could discuss his 'anger issues'.

The thoughts passed quickly through the detective's mind. Screw it. He didn't care. He honestly didn't regret what had happened. When Strickland had made that derrogatory comment about the little girl, Brass _had_ lost control, if only for a moment. But he hadn't hurt the slimeball. He was confident he hadn't compromised the case. And Brass hoped that his parting words _would_ cause the scumbucket 'deep mental pain and suffering'. Christ knew Strickland deserved that at the very _least._ Sorrow washed over the detective as he thought about the kind of suffering the child had endured and would continue to endure for years to come, as a result of that heinous assault.

Cecilia had watched the interrogation with interest. Catherine had filled her in on the general aspects of the Palmateer case. Cecilia had been nauseated by the recounting. She knew that horrible things happened to people every day. Even to children. But seeing the suspect through the mirrored glass, listening to his voice, hearing his lies, had brought home the reality of the situation in a way that had deeply disturbed Cecilia. Innocent until proven guilty, of course. But Catherine and Brass's certainty that Michael Strickland was responsible for the sexual assault on Carly Palmateer, had transmitted to Cecilia, so that she believed in his guilt because they did. She prayed that the DNA Catherine would collect tonight would seal Strickland's fate.

When Strickland had made his derisive comment about the child, when he had called her that name, Cecilia had pressed white-knuckled hands to the glass, wishing for a moment to be through it and into the room. She had been infused with a fury that she had never experienced before. She had wanted to shriek with primal rage, and to inflict physical pain on the monster in the other room.

When Captain Brass had kicked his chair out from underneath him, Cecilia's adrenaline had surged. When he was across the table almost faster than her eye could track, she had sent up a silent cheer. When Brass had grabbed the suspect's clothing, Cecilia had wanted him to twist until the other man's eyes bulged in his head and his face turned blue, and his tongue lolled from his lifeless mouth. She had been shocked by her reaction.

But she hadn't been shocked by Brass's actions. Too soon, he was releasing Strickland, and pushing him away, unharmed. Cecilia's had flushed with disappointment. Before Brass had let Strickland go, he had said something to the man. Something that she hadn't been able to hear. Whatever it had been, for the first time Strickland displayed true terror.

Brass was standing here now, looking at Cecilia unapologetically. She wanted to say something. To tell him that she understood. To communicate how much she admired the restraint he had shown, and his ability to reharness his anger. She wanted to express how much his empathy and compassion for the victim, touched her. She wanted to thank him for whatever he had whispered to Strickland.

Before Cecilia could say anything, however, Brass was coolly excusing himself, and stepping around to continue down the hall towards his office. She turned her head, her dark eyes following his progress. His quick gait, and the stiff way Brass held his arms at his sides, evidenced his tension.

The moment had passed, and Cecilia knew she would never speak to the detective about what she had just witnessed. _'Bravo, Captain,' _she thought with fierce pride, as his compact figure retreated down the hall. _'Bravo.'_


	11. Chapter 11

"Greg, I need this to be a priority," Catherine Willows urged, holding out the evidence bag. Her blue-eyed gaze was sombre.

Greg turned from the wash station, where he was putting on a new pair of latex gloves. "I'm swamped," he advised her reluctantly. "We're backlogged. I've got four other 'priority' cases at the moment, and others that aren't as urgent, but that have been waiting and have to get done at some point." His shrugged his shoulders, shooting a glance at the workboard.

Cecilia watched as Catherine pressed her lips together. The CSI had been reticent on their return from interrogating Michael Strickland. She had not said a word about what had transpired in the room, and had cradled her kit, with the evidence bag containing the sample of Strickland's DNA, close to her chest. Catherine had seemed drained and preoccupied, intent on getting back to the lab.

"I'll buy you a pound of Blue Hawaiian, handsome" Catherine coaxed, smiling at the young man, "if my case moves to the top of the list." She leaned in towards him, jutting one hip provocatively, and lightly touching his sleeve. "Well, make that a half pound," she amended with a wink. "I still want to be able to make my mortgage payment."

Greg grinned widely, enjoying the banter and the flattery, even though he knew what precipitated it. Then he sobered. "Really, Catherine, I can't. Everyone feels that their case is the most important." His dark eyes communicated their understanding and regret.

Catherine sighed, straightening her back. "It's the Palmateer case," she explained quietly. "That little girl that was raped by her mom's boyfriend." Catherine's sapphire eyes shone with emotion.

The muscle in Greg's left jaw twitched. He tried to stay impersonal and uninvolved and to do his job as a scientist, without dwelling too much on the circumstances that brought the evidence to his lab. In the beginning, when he'd first started working for the LVPD's forensics unit, he had wanted to know the details of all of the cases. Had found himself investing too much emotionally in the work. Had driven himself harder than he should, on behalf of victims who he came to feel were depending on _him_ for justice.

He'd allowed himself to be cajoled, and intimidated and had had a hard time standing up to CSIs who, understandably, all felt that what was a priority for them, should also be a priority for _him_. He had been affected by graphic retellings of crime scenes, and had been imbued with sympathy and compassion for those whose lives had been touched by tragedy. Greg had found himself putting in more and more overtime, and losing his sense of self to his work.

When he got off shift, and went home to his apartment, he would lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering if he could worked a bit faster. Or if there had been some mistake he had made, something he had mishandled, or something he had overlooked. He'd agonize over court cases, wondering if the judge would disallow some crucial piece of DNA evidence, and a guilty perp would go free.

When he'd gone back home to visit his parents that first Christmas after being hired at the Vegas lab, and just five months into his career, he had been mentally and physically exhausted. His mother had come downstairs one night, to find him sitting alone in the darkened family room, in front of the remnants of a fire, staring into the dying embers.

She had laid a slim hand on his shoulder. _"Talk to me, Sweetheart," _she had urged gently, settling onto the sofa next to him. She had taken his arm, and laid her head on his shoulder. _"I'm glad that you could get back for Christmas. Except...you're not really even here." _Greg had tensed, and she had squeezed his arm reassuringly. _"You're like a different person, Greg. Your laughter used to resound through these rooms whenever you were in this house. You've always been our light, shining brightly, showing us how much joy there was in the world, because you saw wonder everywhere."_

She had paused, letting him consider her words. _"I don't think you've smiled once in the last two days. Not a real smile. Not one that lights up those beautiful dark eyes of yours. Not even when you opened that swami hat that Meghan gave you."_

Meghan was his younger sister, seventeen and still at home. The swami reference had been an inside joke between the two of them. Though several years had separated them, Greg and his only sibling had been close. When she was little, and Greg would catch her misbehaving, he would tease her by threatening to tell their parents. Even though she knew he would never tattle on her, Meghan would squeal with mock fear and beg him not to.

Greg would close his eyes and put a hand to his forehead in mystic fashion, and pretend that he was predicting the future, and that he could see what Meghan's punishment for her infraction might be. He would come up with all sorts of wild and impossible disciplines, that might range from their parents boxing Meghan up and shipping her to a desert island, to their building a turreted addition on their backsplit, and banishing Meghan there til such a time as a brave knight on his noble steed, should ride in and rescue her. Eventually, they would both be laughing, and Greg would be tickling her, and admonishing her to be a good girl in the future if he kept her secret.

Their parents hadn't known the details of this private joke. But Greg's mother had seen how excited Meghan had been when she'd come home from the mall with the ridiculous purple and gold hat. The teen had hardly been able to wait for her older brother to come home, so that she could give him his gift. Her daughter's disappointment in the lacklustre reaction her brother had shown to the gift, had been palpable. She continued quietly, _"We can all see that something is wrong, Greg. You aren't yourself. You've always been so happy and full of life..."_

Those words _'full of life'_ had caused Greg's chest to constrict. He thought about the last case that he had worked on before leaving Vegas. The decomposing body of a child whose description hadn't even seemed to match any of the national missing persons cases. An abused child whose lifeless form had been dumped, and whom noboby, it had seemed, either missed or mourned. _"I'm not a kid anymore!" _he had snapped. _"Life isn't all fun and games, you know!" _He had been horrified that he had raised his voice to his mother, but he had been unable to stop himelf. _"If you saw some of things I've seen! If you knew some of the things I know! If you had to live with that every single day..." _

His voice had trailed off then, his throat too tight to get out any more of the words to express what churned inside of him. _"I know that I'll never understand, not fully," _his mother had said softly, at length, and Greg thought he had detected a slight tremor in her voice. _"But I can listen."_

And so it had all come pouring out of him then, in cathartic waves. And when Greg was done, he knew even before his mother said it, that he couldn't lose _himself_ in the importance and seriousness of his work. He had to retain his identity, or he would burn out before another year had even passed, and the Greg Sanders that he had always been, and enjoyed being, would cease to exist.

And so the next day, he'd taken his little sister out to the movies, to see a comedy that was so ridiculously bad that they were both rolling their eyes in derision, even as the laughter had bubbled from their lips. And the next day, before he'd left, Greg had put the swami hat on, and predicted that Meghan was going to graduate high school with honours the following June. And then he'd hugged her and told her to be good or their parents would lock her in the turret and she'd miss her graduation party. _"And remember," _he'd cautioned, wagging his finger at her, _"you might be able to fool Mom and Dad. But Swami always knows!"_

And then Greg had packed up his bags, and taking the elaborate, purple headpiece he had gone back to Las Vegas, where he had slowly but steadily made the effort not to succuumb to the pressures of the job anymore. Every now and then, when he felt himself slipping into that stressed and overwhelmed state again, he would dig out the swami hat, and remember that life was not all darkness and despair and ugliness, and that it didn't mean that he didn't care, if he still found opportunity to laugh.

"Greg?" Catherine's hesitant voice broke his reverie.

Greg knew that he did have a great deal of work to do. And he knew that all of it _was_ important. But the cases with the children...those were the ones that still affected him. He had seen a picture of Carly Palmateer, in the case file that Catherine had been going over in the break room last night. He'd heard her telling Nick about what the mother's boyfriend had done to the girl.

Every now and then something would get past his defensive shield. The difference was that now Greg could acknowledge his emotional involvement, and deal with it without letting it eat him up inside. "Yeah, okay Catherine," he relented. "I have one sample for Warrick's floater from last week that I _have_ to do first. Then I'll do yours."

Catherine relaxed visibly, the tension that had been knotting her lovely features easing away. "Thank you, Greg, so much!" she said sincerely. "I'll bring the coffee tomorrow."

"Oh no, no, no..." Greg told her with a sly grin. "If you want to jump to the front of the line, you're going to have to sweeten the deal. I'm thinking dinner, drinks and dancing."

Catherine laughed. "Sorry, Greg, I'm not going out with you. Nothing personal, I just don't mix business with pleasure."

Greg made a show of looking taken aback. "Who said I was talking about you?" he asked. He winked at Cecilia. "I was talking about your friend."

Cecilia coloured slightly, but chuckled. It had been a while since a good-looking young man had flirted with her, and even though she knew Greg Sanders was just joking around, she enjoyed being included in the camaraderie. "I don't dance," she said, with mock sorrow, shaking her head.

Greg threw up his hands. "Fine then! I guess I'll just do this out of the goodness of my heart." He was still smiling, though his dark eyes were intent on the writer. For a moment, he wondered what she might think of his seeming irreverence under the circumstances. He wondered if Cecilia would think him callous and uncaring, untouched by the sad reality that had brought Catherine to his lab tonight. He wondered if she could possibly understand.

Leaving Greg to his work, the two women proceeded to the office where Janey had been trying to match prints from the liquor store robbery. The computer was continuing to run it's search, but still there had been no match. Catherine had sent Janey on a break, to rest her tired eyes, while she continued to monitor the screen. Eventually they had a hit, on the prints of a retired Air Force Captain, living in Las Vegas.

Catherine ran a check on Lawrence Reingold, and found nothing in his military records to indicate that he would be involved in either the robbery or the subsequent battery. It was a lead to run down though, and Reingold would have to be eliminated as a suspect, but Catherine was sure that he had probably only been a customer in the store recently, and was not responsible for the criminal activity.

Finally, after having no further success, Catherine suggested to Cecilia that they take a break themselves. The dark-haired woman had followed the blonde to the empty break room, where Cecilia had poured herself a cup of coffee, while Catherine removed a bottle of water from the fridge. Despite how interesting the night had been so far, Cecilia was fighting her body's natural inclination to follow it's internal clock, and she needed a boost of caffeine.

Catherine sat with one slender leg drawn up to the knee, her shoe resting on the edge of the chair. She tilted her head and downed a long swig of the water. She set the bottle on the table, and began to turn it in circles, staring at it reflectively. Cecilia took a chair at the other end of the table, to Catherine's left, grimacing at the bitterness of the dark brew, and wondering how long it had been sitting on the burner.

"Brass is a good cop," Catherine spoke suddenly, still concentrating on the bottle of water. "We're lucky to have him on the LVPD. He came here years ago from New Jersey. Almost single-handedly he worked to rid the force there of deep corruption. He..."

"Catherine," Cecilia interrupted calmly. Catherine looked up, her blue eyes uncertain. "I understand what you're trying to do. And I admire your loyalty." Catherine didn't insult her by denying the claim. "It's not necessary though. Really," Cecilia spoke with quiet assurance.

Catherine gave a wan smile. "I just didn't want you to think...to get the wrong impression..." Catherine looked at her levelly. "Jim Brass is a good cop. And he's a good man."

Cecilia thought about their meeting in the hall after the detective had left the room. Of the words that she had wanted to say, but hadn't. She envisioned the intensity and the attention to detail with which he had overseen the hit and run crime scene her first morning with CSI.

She recalled his offer to give her a ride home from Coopers the day of Denny Martens funeral, even though he was suspicious of her motives for being in Vegas. She saw in her mind's eye the gentlemanly way he had held open the car door for her. She remembered how Jim Brass had redirected Sheriff Brian Mobley's unwanted attention the night of the Kellerman's party.

"I don't doubt that at all," Cecilila said simply.

A relieved grin lit Catherine's face. "It's a good story though," she informed the writer.

"One day I'd like to hear it," Cecilia replied sincerely, over the rim of her cup.

"Well, if you can't get Brass to tell it sometime," Catherine continued, "let me know and I'll finish it."


	12. Chapter 12

"We're all getting together for breakfast after shift this morning, at this little diner we sometimes go to," Catherine mentioned to Cecilia. The crimanlist's red-gold mane bent over a microscope. She lifted her head for a moment, her blue eyes finding the other woman's dark ones. "Nothing fancy. Just good food, and a chance to unwind after work. You're welcome to join us."

Cecilia felt a surge of pleasure at the invitation. She had been enjoying the past week, and her time spent with the graveyard shift. She found a lot to admire in Catherine Willows and learned a great deal by watching her work. Catherine had a sharp mind, and a college education that was tempered by common sense and an innate grasp of human nature. She was attentive to detail, and thorough in her work, and not afraid to adjust her theories as new evidence came to light.

Catherine also had a good sense of humour, and a caring nature. Cecilia had learned that Catherine was a single mother, raising a pre-adolescent daughter. The writer intuited how much the scientist loved her child and that things were stable for them right now, but also that their life had not been without difficulties. She had picked up on the undertones, when Catherine had spoken about trying to juggle work and home. And when Catherine had mentioned her ex, Lindsey's father, briefly touching on his recent death, Cecelia had detected a painful history there.

She had not pried, instead sharing briefly her own life history in turn. Her one engagement in her early thirties that had been called off when she had realized that her fiance Andy and she had different priorites when it came to family. Andy was content for them to live the double-income-no-kids lifestyle, while Cecilia had hungered for children.

Cecilia hadn't confided to Catherine that she sometimes wondered if ending the engagement had been a mistake. There had been no other serious relationship since calling off things with Andy six years ago. And as the years had progressed, Cecilia had realized that the likelihood of ever having a child was decreasing with each passing year. Of course, these days women in their forties were becoming pregnant and successfully carrying children, but Cecilia had come to accept that her dream might not ever come true.

In the intervening years she would wonder if Andy might have changed his mind over time. As his brother and sisters started their own families, she wondered if it would stir something in him. They parted friends, and stayed in touch. When he had married two years later, she had thought how ironic it would be if he and his new bride decided to have children. But four years later, there had still been no pregnancy announced, and it seemed as though Andy's wife Helene shared his priorities and enjoyed their present lifestyle. Long before Andy's marriage though, Cecilia had come to realize that though she cared for him, and had been intoxicated with the excitement of their early relationship, that really they did not have enough in common to sustain a real love.

Cecilia had begun to concentrate on other dreams instead. Such as her lifelong desire to be a novelist. She had thrown all of the energy that she would have put into a relationship, into her writing instead. And it had paid off for her. She was proud of her accomplishments. Even though there was a part of her that remained unfulfilled. Her desire for a partner to share her life. And a child to raise in the midst of their love.

Cecilia had even considered artificial insemination a few years previously. Thinking that even if she couldn't attain all of her dream, perhaps she could still orchestrate part of it. But finally, she had been unable to muffle the protestations of her old-fashioned values.

Cecilia didn't judge any other woman for her own choices. And she knew that many women were in Catherine's situation, and became single mothers out of necessity rather than choice. But Cecilia found herself unable to deliberately bring a child into the world without two parents. She used to console herself that one day, when she least expected it, she would find her _Mr. Right_. But now she lived for the moment, and took as much pleasure as she could from the life she was blessed with at this point in time.

Catherine's asking her to join them, hopefully meant that some of the positive feelings Cecilia had about Catherine, and the other CSIs, might be reciprocated. "I'd like that," Cecilia replied warmly to the other woman's overture.

Cecilia was appreciating getting to know the other members of the team, as well. One night, when Catherine and Warrick had gone out to a scene, Cecilia had remained behind with Gil Grissom. She had gotten him to share some of what seemed to be limitless knowledge on insects and how they related to the field of forensics. He gave her some of the articles he had published, once he saw that her interest was genuine. He brought up old case files for her to review, where blowflies had been instrumental in setting timelines that proved to narrow down the potential suspects until the real culprit was caught.

Grissom answered her questions patiently and with enthusiasm. She liked the way he would become so animated discussing topics that were near and dear to him. Cecilia enjoyed the sound of his voice, and the intensity of his blue-eyed gaze when he would quiz her sometimes, to determine whether or not she was really understanding the topics they covered.

Though he never came right out and said so, Cecilia sensed that Grissom approved of the efforts she was making. There was the occasional softening of his gaze, and the way he would lay a hand lightly on her shoulder, when she asked a relevant question or made a pertinent observation. Cecilia had a glimpse of what Gil Grissom might be like on a podium in front of his peers, discussing his passion. Different than the often introverted supervisor who sometimes seemed unsure of how to deal with the human elements of his job.

Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes were both strong, engaging personalities. They shared a professional rivalry that was based on mutual respect, and different from the self-centredness and resentment Cecilia had witnessed on day shift. Warrick was more laid back, with an understated sense of humour. Cecilia noted that he was good with numbers, and had a keen mathematical mind. Nick Stokes was more outgoing and energetic, and his dark eyes always mirrored compassion and empathy for others. He had an open appreciation for beautiful women, Cecilia observed, and a bit of a reputation as a ladies' man, that she didn't doubt that he deserved.

Sara Sidle was the most taciturn of the team. She maintained an aloofness, with Cecilia at least, that Cecilia tried to respect. Cecilia had learned that Sara was the newest member of the team. There had been some situation in the past, some tragedy, that had been hinted at but not openly discussed, that had brought Sara to Las Vegas at Grissom's invitation. Though Gil and Sara had apparently worked together before, and though Sara had been with the Vegas unit for a few years now, there was a distance between the two that Cecilia found puzzling.

Whatever had precipitated Sara's coming to Las Vegas had also been the harbinger of some fall from grace for Jim Brass, Cecilia had learned. It had been one of the lab assistants who had made mention of that one night, though he hadn't elaborated and Cecilia hadn't pressed for details. It had been alluded to that Brass had once headed the CSI unit. Cecilia thought that that might explain why the criminalists seemed closer to Jim Brass than to the other detectives. Because he had once been one of them.

After the police interrogation at headquarters, Cecilia had only seen Jim once. She had been walking past Grissom's office, and had glanced up to see the dark-haired detective seated across the desk from the supervisor. Brass had given a distracted nod, briefly acknowledging Cecilia, before turning back to Grissom.

It had been interesting getting to know the graveyard shift CSIs on a professional level and she looked forward to spending some time with them on a more personal level. While Cecilia wasn't an overly social person, she found that she was missing her co-workers and friends back in Pennsylvannia, and the small apartment that she rented seemed very lonely. She kept herself busy at her laptop keyboard, composing notes, information, and impressions from her time with the CSI unit. But she still hungered for a more informal exchange with other people, and Catherine's invitation was a lifeline that she reached for happily.

After the night's shift, Cecilia followed Catherine to the restaurant, her small, blue rental car trailing after the big, black Denali. The proprietor greeted Catherine warmly, pulling her close for a quick hug, and extending his welcome to Cecilia as Catherine introduced her. Cecilia followed the other woman to a large booth at the rear of the premises where Grissom, Warrick and Sara already sat waiting.

Warrick was the first to speak. "Hey, Cecilia," he greeted with an easy smile. "Welcome to Vegas's best kept secret. George makes the most incredible omelettes in the state of Nevada." His beautiful green eyes were friendly as he shifted over on the bench, then Sara beside him, so that Catherine could slide onto the seat.

Gil Grissom moved from his seat and stood up so that Cecilia could shuffle to the inside of the opposite bench, before he took the seat beside her. He smiled briefly, though he appeared distracted this morning. Celicia thanked him and then looked across the table at Sara, nodding a greeting. Sara inclined her head in return, her dark eyes observing the writer speculatively.

A buxom, middle-aged, red-headed waitress brought glasses to the three who had already ordered drinks, then waited as Catherine requested orange juice and Cecilia asked for tomato juice. They sipped their drinks and chatted, waiting to order. Warrick and Sara had been working on a vehicular accident on the interstate, that had resulted in three fatalities. Grissom had been holed up in his office devoting time to upcoming evaluations.

Nick Stokes finally strolled in, apologetic for being late, his grin wide and white-toothed. He had been questioning an employee at one of the casinos about a suspected inside job involving a robbery at a small but lucrative jewellry shop in the casino's lobby. He seemed genuinely happy to see that Cecilia had joined them, and winked at her as he took the seat next to Grissom.

The waitress returned, and everyone ordered breakfast. Cecilia realized with a sinking let down that for some reason she had been half expecting that Jim Brass would be joining them. She didn't know why she would think that, and hadn't even been consciously anticipating that he would, but nevertheless disappointment stole over her for a moment.

Cecilia's omlette was just as delicious as Warrick had promised it would be. She had ordered one with andouille sausage, emmenthal cheese and green and red peppers. Sara had ordered the 'vegetarian special', a mix of cheeses, mushrooms, and peppers. Cecilia knew two vegetarians back in Erie. One, a co-worker, became a vegetarian after going on a meat-restricted reducing diet and finding that she felt so much better overall. Another, Cecilia's friend Karen, had become a vegetarian for moral reasons.

"Have you been a vegetarian for long?" Cecilia asked Sara conversationally, trying to bridge the gulf between them. Sara shook her head, wiping her mouth with her napkin, and mumbling that it had only been a couple of years. "I've toyed with the idea, but I just don't think I could give up meat," Cecilia admitted. "Do you do it for ethical reasons, or for health reasons?" she queried.

Sara gave a lopsided smile, her dark eyes sparkling. In that instant, unguarded, she looked very pretty and Cecilia glimpsed another side of the serious CSI. "Neither, really. I don't have any moral compunctions about eating meat. I used to love it.

"Then one night I sat with Grissom in the parking lot during an experiment using the carcass of a pig." Sara grimaced, though her eyes were alight at the memory. "Charting the onset of flies and decomposition." She gave a short, apologetic laugh. "Sorry, not the best breakfast tale."

Cecilia gave a mock shudder, then shrugged and grinned, bringing a forkful of her eggs to her mouth to show that she had a cast iron stomache.

Sara continued. "After that, I just couldn't touch animal flesh. Just the thought makes me nauseous. I'm not a true vegan or anything, I'll eat eggs and dairy, but nothing that used to be alive." She turned her gaze to Gil. "Grissom forever ruined pork chops for me." Her voice was light and teasing.

From the corner of her eye, Cecilia noticed that Grissom wore a deadpan expression. He didn't smile, and didn't add anything to Sara's story. He looked down at his plate of toast, slowly spreading it with blackberry jam, as though he hadn't heard a word, or as if Sara was talking about someone else altogether.

Sara took in his cool detachment. Cecilia watched as a shadow replaced the light in the younger woman's eyes. The upturned corners of her mouth returned to their customary neutral line. There was a tension in her finely defined jawline. Then Sara dropped her eyes to her plate at the same time that her slender shoulders drooped.

_'She cares for him,' _Cecilia knew instantly. But Grissom, had erected an impenetrable wall between them. He did not return Sara's interest, it seemed. Cecilia's heart constricted at the heaviness in the air.

There was an uncomfortable pause, broken by Catherine's hearty interjection. "Monday morning is the evidentiary hearing for the Palmateer case."

Discussion turned gratefully to that topic. Greg Sanders tests on the DNA sample taken from Michael Strickland at his interrogation, had proven a match to the sample taken from Carly Palmateer. Catherine's joy at that, had been tempered by the brutal reality of what the young girl had endured at the hands of her mother's boyfriend. Catherine related that at least Lisa Palmateer was supporting her daughter against Michael. She had seen other sad cases where women, either desperate or in denial,had refused to believe the evidence or their own child's stories of abuse. Victimizing the poor child twice, and possibly even more damagingly.

Catherine and Jim Brass would be among those testifying at the hearing. Cecilia knew that an evidentiary hearing was a preliminary proceeding that would determine whether or not criminal charges would be heard in a court of law, and what evidence would be admitted. Cecilia was looking forward to observing the hearing and to watching the CSI and the detective in another aspect of their jobs.

Throughout the conversation, Cecilia's gaze would stray to Sara. The young woman was resiliently joining in, and adding to the discussion, determinedly not allowing Gil Grissom's treatment of her to get her down. Cecilia wondered how difficult it must be for Sara to work for a man that she had deep feelings for, and who did not reciprocate them.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

_He took a long swallow of coffee, savouring the bitter brew, swishing it around in his mouth. His eyes were trained on the newspaper article and accompanying photograph that he had saved out of the paper. The photograph was grainy, but he could pick out enough details to recognize his prey._

_Every day, he would take the photograph down from where a magnet advertising a pizza chain, held it to the surface of the fridge. And he would sit and stare at it, and feel the power surge through his veins._

_Now a bony finger traced the familiar visage, not too much changed by the intervening years. The finger quaked with an anger that he fought to force back down. Back to that secret centre where it would wait and grow until he needed it to dip into it. He whispered the name, over and over, trying to imagine his victim's features contorted with fear and recognition. Or perhaps slack-jawed with that stupification that had come over Denny Martens in that final satisfying moment before he had run him down._

_The photograph had been taken on the day of Martens' funeral. When the broken-hearted had come to lament their loss. Never realizing that _he_ in his genius had orchestrated the whole thing. That Denny had had to settle an old debt. And that he had had to pay with his life. There was the widow and the son. Leaning together for support. How touching._

_But this one. This was the one that held his interest now. It would only be a matter of days before another score would be settled. He had planned this one out carefully too. That was half the fun, really. Making it look like an accident. But making sure that in those final moments, it would be his face they would see. And the knowledge that it was their own shortcomings that had led to their demise, would be the last thought to echo through their heads._

_The sun had still not yet risen fully in the sky. How many more sunrises and sunsets would he grant to this one? How many more sleeps before that final rest? He picked up the pen and began to circle the face. Around and around his fingers traced, as the thick inky line separated this face from the other mourners. Harder and harder he pressed, until the tip of the ballpoint was slicing through the thin, recycled paper. Finally, it separated from the background photo, a bodiless head, floating on the formica of his kitchen table._

_There were two left. And soon...very soon...there would only be one._


	13. Chapter 13

_Thank you to those who continue to read and review my story. And who leave such kind and encouraging words. I value being able to share my CSI world with others who can take some pleasure from it. I hope that you continue to enjoy it and as always appreciate the feedback. Cathy._

Like a stately older matron receiving guests, the courthouse opened its doors Monday morning. Cecilia followed Catherine inside the building. The seal of Nevada graced the front entrance, and a large oil on canvas of the governor hung in the main rotunda. The tiled floors, trod so often by victims, by those who perpetrated crimes against them, by those who sought to defend the perpetrators, and by those who made it their life's mission to capture and bring those criminals to justice, gleamed with a waxy sheen that belied that any but theirs were the first feet to cross them.

There was an underlying sense of _power_ that washed over Cecilia, as she stood looking up at the national, state, and municipal flags that hung crisply, high overhead from a curved balcony. Men and women in expensive suits, carrying leather briefcases, hurried to courtrooms, or up the wide staircase, or through one of the polished wood doors into one of the wood-panelled elevators. People were tried here by juries of their peers. Sometimes exonerated, and set free, sometimes found guilty and punished according to the enormous legal tomes that set the current societal standards.

Not all of those moving about were employees of the court, or attornies. Though almost everyone was attired neatly and in deference to their surroundings, clearly for many being inside this building was a serious, rare and perhaps life-altering event. Some of the faces that passed her held fear, others tired resignation, and others still were tight with hope that justice might at last be served.

There were uniformed police officers, local LVPD and state troopers as well, talking together in small clusters, many sipping coffee from styrofoam cups. Prosecutors stopped to give last minute instructions and to ask final questions.

Cecilia's dark eyes scanned a board that listed what cases were being presided over by which justices, in which of the courtrooms that branched off from the inner lobby. The evidentiary hearing for Michael Strickland was being held in courtroom four. Cecilia clasped her hands together nervously, wondering how Catherine managed to look so calm.

The blonde looked professional and demure, in a sage green linen skirt, and long-sleeved, pale green blouse, buttoned high. Her only jewellry was a pair of emerald studs that occasionally caught the light as Catherine turned her head, searching the rotundra. Her make up was minimal, a bit of cocoa shadow, a light dusting of rose on her well-defined cheeks, and a glossy pale pink on her lips. She carried a brown soft-sided briefcase, that contained her notes on the case.

Cecilia had mostly casual clothes, and the newly purchased dress that she had worn to the Kellerman's dinner party, but had managed to pull together what she felt was an appropriate outfit for an onlooker to the proceedings. A cream-coloured blouse, softly shirred at the bust, but not tightly so, and a pair of tan cotton pants would have to do.

"Catherine!"

Both women turned at the sound of the male voice. Jim Brass crossed from their left, moving easily through the crowd with a steady, purposeful gait. He'd gotten a haircut, Cecilia noticed first, close-cropped and neat. He wore a suit of dark grey, and beneath it a white shirt with thin, burgundy stripes. His tie was burgundy, held in place with a tie pin of brushed gold, graced by a small, yellow stone. _His birthstone? _Cecilia found herself wondering. It looked like something a woman would pick out. A gift perhaps, from someone special. Cecilia wondered why she would think such a thing, and a faint blush coloured her cheeks, even though no one could hear her thoughts, or sense her momentary discomfiture at the idea.

"Well, Jim, a few more hours and this part will be over," Catherine commented drily. "Then we look ahead to the trial and finally nailing this bastard." Her blue eyes were dark with emotion, in contrast to her relaxed stance and the evenness of her tone.

"Morning, Cecilia," Brass directed a greeting to the writer. Since the night of Strickland's interrogation, he had not spoken to the dark-haired woman at all, and had only seen her briefly once when he'd been at the CSI offices meeting with Grissom. After he had temporarily lost his cool with the suspect, Brass had waited with a quiet, dignified resolution for some kind of backlash.

He had been certain that Cecilia Laval would make an issue of the moment. That she would be disappointed and dismayed and want to see some sort of official censure of his actions. When one day had eased into the next, and he had heard nothing about that night, Brass came to realize that what had happened in the interrogation room was going to stay there. He had been unsure of what to think about that. It seemed that he was constantly having to re-evaluate his perceptions of the novelist.

She was regarding him now with openness and warmth. Not averting her eyes as though he was some terrible beast that she couldn't bear to look at. Brass was usually pretty good at sizing people up, of understanding their motivations, and of anticipating their behaviours. Perhaps he was just becoming too jaded. Too cynical. Maybe he was getting too complacent and losing his edge. Or...perhaps there was something different about this woman.

"Good morning," she replied softly, almost shyly.

"Judge Ramirez is presiding," Brass spoke to Catherine, unnecessarily, since he knew she would already be well aware of that.

Catherine nodded. "Elena Ramirez is a good judge. Fair."

Cecilia tilted her head to one side. "There isn't really any chance that the case won't be prosecuted is there?" She frowned slightly. "Or that any of the evidence will be inadmissable?" She had thought this more a formality.

"Naw, it'll go through," Brass assured her. "Strickland can't afford some slimey, underhanded defense lawyer who'll try every trick in the book to stall justice, and put the force on trial instead of the criminal." His nostrils flared wider in contempt.

Strickland's attorney turned out to be the same public defender who had been present at his interrogation and while the warrant had been served for Catherine to collect a sample of his DNA. From where Cecilia sat next to Catherine on a bench two rows behind the assistant D.A., she had a clear view of the rapist. He sat slumped in his chair, looking pale and haggard, and uncomfortable in an ill-fitting brown suit.

Cecilia wondered again what Jim Brass had whispered to Strickland that night, to completely change the man's demeanour from that of a cocky, unrepentent punk to a frightened, hollow figure. Her gaze went from Strickland to Brass, sitting at the outside edge of the first row. Brass was staring at Strickland, who studiously avoided eye contact.

They rose when Judge Ramirez entered the courtroom. Though short in stature, the middle-aged justice was an imposing figure, who carried herself with confidence. Her dark-eyed gaze behind gold, wire-rimmed glasses, as she surveyed her domain, was one of complete control. She smoothed the folds of her long, black robe around her ample hips then settled behind her bench.

As Cecilia resumed her seat, she felt a momentary dizziness. She had woken with a sore throat that morning, but had felt fine otherwise. Now, as she sat quickly, gripping the back of the bench in front of her, steadying herself, a wave of nausea swept over her. She swallowed tightly, concentrating on the judge's opening remarks, and willing herself to think instead about every small detail of the proceedings so that she could record them all later.

The hearing was barely underway when Cecilia shivered with the first chill, her skin rippling with gooseflesh. For a while she tried to kid herself that it was just that the air conditioning in the building was turned so high. But when she felt the perspiration bead her upper lip, and gather on her forehead, despite how cold she was feeling, she knew it was more than that.

Her throat felt tight and painful, and her head began to pound. During a lull, she leaned towards Catherine and excused herself for a moment, making her way out of the courtroom and into the hall. In the ladies' room, Cecilia stood at the sink, holding the marble ledge for support. She splashed cold water on her face, but instead of reviving her, that only increased how chilled she was.

Cecilia wasn't sure how long she stood there, with her eyes closed. She heard the outer door open, and the soft click of heels on the tiled floor, before a gentle hand touched her right forearm.

"Hey, are you okay?" Catherine's dulcet tones whispered with concern.

Cecilia opened her eyes and mustered a rueful smile. "Actually, I feel lousy," she admitted. "I had a sore throat this morning, but now I feel like I've been hit with some kind of summer flu."

Catherine reached a slender hand to touch the back of it against Cecilia's forehead in a comfortingly maternal gesture. "You're burning up," Catherine commented with a frown.

Cecilia sighed. "I guess I'd better just go home. I hope it's nothing contagious," she said apologetically.

Catherine smiled. "I never get sick." She observed the other woman for a moment. "Can you get home all right? Maybe you should call a taxi."

"I'll wait a few minutes, and see how I am," Cecilia replied. She saw Catherine glance surrepititiously at her watch, and then towards the door. "You'd better get back, I know you have to be there for when they call you." Catherine hesitated indecisively. "Really, I'll be fine," Cecilia told her.

"I should get back," Catherine agreed. "I'm off til Tuesday night. If you feel better by then, I'll see you at work. If not, just rejoin us whenever you feel able." The writer nodded. "Call the lab if you need anything, okay? Take care."

"Thanks," Cecilia said. Catherine touched her shoulder compassionately, and then returned to the courtroom.

Cecilia drove herself home, though by the time she pulled into the parking lot, she was questioning the wisdom of that idea. She'd had another wave of dizziness at one of the main intersections, and had closed her eyes, leaning her head on the steering wheel for a moment, concentrating on taking steady breaths. Irritated honking from the vehicles behind her let her know when the light had changed, and she had been grateful to finally be back at the apartment.

She stood in the shower on unsteady legs, hoping the warm water would ease the chill that had sunk deep into her bones. She towelled off, and slipped into satin pajama pants and a matching camisole, then crawled into bed. She curled up fetally, hugging a pillow tight to her abdomen, wishing that she had something for the ache in her head.

"Where's Cecilia?" Brass queried Catherine as the hearing broke for lunch. He had already given his testimony, and had noticed during the criminalist's statements and presentation that the writer was not in the courtroom. He had been surprised at that, because she had seemed very interested in the proceedings, and an evidentiary hearing wasn't something that they participated in every day.

"She's pretty sick, poor thing," Catherine recounted sympathetically. "Flu or something. She had to leave."

"That's too bad," Brass replied, a frown furrowing his brow.

"Let's grab lunch," Catherine told him. "Coopers or something quick like that sub place?"

Brass shook his head regretfully. "Not today, sorry. I'm done here, and have some things to clear up back at the office. You coming back after lunch?"

"Well, yeah," Catherine said, with a hint of indignation. "I'm not leaving til the judge sets the trial date."

Brass nodded his understanding. Normally he would have remained as well, but he was confident about the case, and had others that needed his attention too. "Do me a favour and page me when you hear something?"

"Sure," Catherine agreed. She smiled broadly at him. "Go catch some more bad guys!"

Cecilia thought at first that she must have imagined the knock. When it came again, followed by another just seconds later, she groaned her impatience and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her whole body ached, and she just wanted to be left alone. There was no one would be stopping by to see her, so she assumed it was someone trying to sell something. Vacuum cleaners. Chocolate bars. Religion. Or maybe a taxi that had the wrong address.

Cecilia peeked through the eyehole and her mouth dropped open. She couldn't have been any more surprised. Jim Brass stood outside her front door. Her first panicked thoughts were that something had happened to Catherine, or that something had gone wrong at Strickland's hearing. Fumbling with the lock, and then the safety chain, she swung the door inward and stood staring at the detective, her heart pounding in alarm.

Brass stood there with a large paper bag in his arms. "I hate to disturb you," he began apologetically. "Catherine said you were sick." He took in the unnatural, ruddy colour in her cheeks, and the hot brightness of her velvet brown eyes.

Cecilia nodded dumfoundedly. She was too relieved to realize that nothing was wrong, and feeling too ill to care that she wasn't really dressed for company, or to feel self-conscious about her skimpy camisole. She stood back, to allow him to enter, wondering for a moment how he knew where she lived, before remembering that he had dropped her home the day of Denny Martens' funeral.

Brass entered the apartment, and stood just inside the door, holding the bag to his chest. After leaving the courthouse, on route to the precinct, he had recalled with clarity a horrible flu that he had battled shortly after coming to Las Vegas, so many years ago. He had been alone in town. He had no friends here at that time, and his colleagues were merely co-workers still, some of whom harboured resentment for the work that he had done in back in New Jersey. Not liking the idea of 'dirty cops' any more than he did, but torn by that unwritten loyalty to the 'brotherhood'.

Having recently moved in, Brass hadn't stocked the medicine cabinet yet. And he'd been too sick to even leave his apartment to get some over the counter stuff to help alleviate his symptoms. He'd suffered in his room for three days and two nights, hardly able to get up to go to the bathroom, or to get a drink of water. He'd felt so alone and so miserable. Not the worst time of his life...not by a longshot...but unhappily memorable nonetheless.

It had been logical for Brass to think then of Cecilia Laval. To imagine that she might be in similar circumstances now. He didn't believe that she would have arranged for a temporary physician for the few months that she planned to be in Vegas. And the walk-in clinics would be overflowing. He had bet that if the novelist was feeling as badly as Catherine had indicated, that she probably would have come straight home, not even thinking to stop to pick up any medications. And he would have bet that her medicine cabinet probably was no more well stocked than his had been when he'd been new to the city.

So it had seemed natural that he had continued on past the station, called in to say that he was running a personal errand and would be in shortly, then had driven to a pharmacy near her apartment. "I, uh, I thought that maybe, being new to town and all, that you might, uh, need a few things," Brass offered by way of explanation. He jiggled the bag in his arms, clearing his throat nervously, hoping that Cecilia would say something.

"Forgive me," she said then. "Please come in." She swept an arm towards the small living area, and the small tweed sofa and the imitation leather easy chair. She closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, willing the swirling inside her head to subside.

Brass watched her pale for a moment. "Hey, you better go sit down," he cautioned. He moved the bag to his left arm, and crooked his right. Cecilia took it and he guided her to the sofa. He could feel the radiating heat of her arm against his, as her body battled whatever bug plagued her system.

"Thank you," she murmured, shifting her hip and drawing her legs up onto the seat, curling them.

Cecilia watched in stunned amazement as the detective moved to the small kitchen area. Brass took various items out of the bag, and laid them on the small, almond counter that jutted out between the kitchen and the living area. He had packed a small pharmacopeia into the bag, she realized.

"I wasn't sure what you had, if anything," he said, somewhat embarassedly. "Catherine said she thought it was probably the flu." He lined up the packages for her perusal. "Extra-Strength Tylenol, of course. Some ibuprofen tablets in case you prefer that. Neo Citran. Pepto Bismol. Nyquil. Throat lozenges. Did I miss anything?"

Brass spoke quickly, not looking at her, as he took two boxes of Kleenex out and set those to the side. He had thought of everything, Cecilia realized. The tightness in her throat now had nothing to do with her being sick. "I don't know what to say," she said at length. There was an emotional tremor in her voice that she hoped he would think was an offshoot of the flu. She blinked her eyelids quickly, horrified that she was going to burst into tears and embarass herself.

He busied himself removing two large styrofoam containers from the bottom of the bag. He set one inside the fridge and left the other on the counter. "I know you might not feel much like eating," he began, "but I thought maybe you could try. There's a little deli not too far from here...Mama Talia's...and they make a killer chicken noodle soup." Brass turned his back to her, rummaging through cupboards and foraging through drawers to find a couple of bowls and spoons.

As he poured the soup out of one of the containers he continued, "Real chunks of white meat chicken. Those curly pasta things. Carrots, celery, onions. Some kind of spices that Mama Talia refuses to divulge." He looked up at Cecilia then and grinned.

For a moment Brass was taken aback by how vulnerable she appeared, sitting there. So pale. Her normally dusky skin tone was stark against the deep purple of her pajamas. The high spots of crimson on her cheeks evidenced her fever. The dark eyes that regarded him now were brimming with trust and gratitude. His chest constricted for a moment. Brass couldn't remember the last time he'd really trusted another human being.

Sure, he was a cop, and most decent, law-abiding people had an instinctive trust of cops. But Cecilia Laval didn't really know him. He was a strange man in her apartment. But there was not the slightest trace of suspicion on her softly rounded features. Part of him wanted to lecture her for letting him in. The other part revelled in the trust.

Brass picked up the bowls and carried them the few steps to the other room, setting them down on the veneer coffee table. "Now, which would you like?" He jerked a thumb to the array of medications.

"The Tylenol, thank you," Cecilia requested politely. "Nyquil too, please." She felt that she should get up and get her own dosages, but she really didn't want to do anything except sit. In only a moment, Jim had returned with the small cup of the green liquid and two white pills. She tossed the tablets back in her throat and washed them down with the Nyquil.

Brass seated himself on the easy chair, leaning forward to reach for one of the bowls, then straightening. "It really is good," he told Cecilia again. "I've been going there for years. This soup will help cure whatever ails you."

His smile helped to take some of the chill out of Cecilia's limbs. The detective had shed his suit jacket, and removed his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. She thought that she liked the casual look much better on him. She reached for the other bowl, and dipped her spoon in, savouring the warm broth. "This _is _delicious," she said in surprise. Not that Cecilia had doubted the sincerity of his praise. Or the opinion of his tastebuds. She just hadn't expected her own to be functioning to capacity.

He chuckled. "If there's one thing I never joke about, it's food."

"I can't thank you enough for your thoughtfulness," Cecilia told him. "How much do I owe you?" She knew that the medicines weren't cheap, and hoped she had enough cash on hand to reimburse him right away.

The smile faded from Brass's face. "Nothing," he told her. Jim knew that it was natural for her to offer to repay him. But for some reason the offer wounded him. He had actually enjoyed walking up and down the aisle of the pharmacy. Reading the labels. Picking out the products he was most familiar with or those that he thought would be the most helpful.

Remembering how terrible he had felt years ago in similar circumstances, Brass had anticipated that his help would be appreciated. He had felt good about doing something for someone else, especially when it wasn't expected. It had been a long time since Jim had had someone else to think about. Someone else to do for. Outside of work, that was. There was no shortage of people who needed his help there. But that was different. That was his job. And to a certain extent people did expect things from him in that capacity. And he was compensated for it.

Financially, it wasn't a burden for him to pick up lunch and a few packages of cold and flu products. He wasn't swimming in dough, but he'd worked hard and lived simply over the years and he had a decent amount socked away. He wasn't going to have to cut back on groceries or his cable bill or anything in order to do this small thing for Cecilia Laval.

Rationally, Brass knew that Cecilia hadn't meant to insult him or to negate the kindness of his gesture. It was just that...as much as he had originally done it for _her_...he had found that the return for his actions filled some need he hadn't even known that he had. _Christ, Brass, _he thought to himself. _Don't wimp out now. Geez, get a goldfish or a plant or something, if you need to get in touch with your nurturing side._

"Just pay it forward some time," he amended.

Cecilia nodded her understanding. "Oh, I can't believe I almost forgot! The hearing. Is it over? Everything went well?"

"We recessed for lunch," Brass explained. "Everything was fine. I testified, and Catherine did as well. No bumps in the road. I expect Judge Ramirez will set the trial date shortly after she reconvenes."

Cecilia looked relieved. "I'm glad to hear it." She hadn't taken more than a few spoonfuls of the soup, and even though it was tasty, her stomache rebelled at the idea of being filled. She set the bowl down on the coffee table, and leaned back against the sofa, closing her eyes for a moment. "I'm sorry that I missed things this morning. I was looking forward to watching you and Catherine."

"How are you liking your time with the graveyard shift?" Brass inquired lightly.

"Wonderful! They are so different from Ecklie's team. It's like night and day." It dawned on Cecilia that she had unintentionally made an incredibly corny pun, and she laughed at the same time that Brass did, their voices mingling. He had a nice, deep laugh she thought. "Seriously, I'm learning so much, and enjoying being with them. There are so many things that I never even considered.

"Sometimes, things move so quickly I don't see how they can keep abreast of it all, and at other times they move so slowly I don't understand how they keep from going crazy at the waiting around." Cecilia paused then spoke her next words without thinking. The medicine, coupled with the fever that it sought to combat, was making her head fuzzy. "But I guess you know all about that, as well as anyone, since you used to be with the CSI unit."

Cecilia raised her hand to her mouth in astonishment, wishing that she could unsay the words. Hoping that perhaps she had only _thought_ them, and not actually spoken them out loud. Mortification washed over her. Jim Brass had been so thoughtful, so solicitous, and here she was speaking like some nosey busybody. Angry tears pricked her lids. She knew what he had thought of her initially, and she had worked to dispell his preconceptions. She had hoped that he would come to see that she wasn't like those carnivorous reporters he detested, always looking for a weak spot, always trying to bring someone down. More concerned with the stories than in the people behind them. Unable to set boundaries of decency and respect.

"I did," Brass acknowledged slowly. He wondered what Cecilia had heard. An Ecklie version, of the story. Or a Grissom one. Not that they were necessarily the ones who had spoken to her about his former glory and subsequent demotion. "Did you need clarification on something? Straight from the horse's mouth, as it were?" he asked sardonically.

"Oh please!" Cecilia said stridently, her eyelids flying open. "I'm so sorry!" Brass was surprised to see the novelist's eyes shining with unshed tears. "I wasn't trying to pry! Someone mentioned something one night in passing. One of the lab assistants. It's none of my business, and I wasn't trying to make it so."

Her distress was too genuine to be a subterfuge, Jim thought. "Hey, it's okay," he reassured her. "It's not a big secret or anything." He watched as her lower lip began to tremble. "If you don't know the story, then maybe it's best if I fill you in. It's not just my story, but I think I'm qualified to tell it. And it's not a happy story. Maybe this isn't the best time though," he considered. He looked at Cecilia, amazed at how she was reacting. Almost as though she was worried about _him_. About what he might think or might feel.

Cecilia felt so exhausted and emotionally drained. She struggled to gauge the detective's mood. Looking for the coldness that she was sure would emanate from his sturdy frame. Watching for the distaste in his dark eyes. Searching worriedly for some sign that bringing up bad memories might have hurt him. "Whatever it is, or was," she told him softly, "it doesn't matter."

Brass stared at her thoughtfully. "I appreciate that. But it probably does. In the greater scheme of things. Because a young woman, a young CSI lost her life. And she deserves not to be forgotten." He smiled gently at Cecilia. "But we can save that for another time."

Cecilia nodded her agreement, and leaned back against the sofa again, snuggling into the corner, and closing her eyes for a moment. She was so tired. The sleep aids in the Nyquil were working their magic, and she felt their inexorable pull. She would just sit here quietly for a moment.

Brass watched the dark-haired woman relax. Soon the evenness of her inhalations and exhalations told him that she had fallen asleep. That was good. She would need it. He observed her for a moment. Unsure of what to think about her. Finally he stood up, reaching for a light cotton throw at the back of his chair. He shook it out, and laid it gently over Cecilia's lower body.

He had noticed a blank memo pad by the telephone on the kitchen counter. He picked up the pen now, and held it in midair for a moment, trying to decide what kind of message to leave. Finally he settled on, _Feel better. Brass. _He stood looking down at it for a few seconds, before ripping the page from the pad, wadding it up and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He rewrote it, with a minor alteration.

_Feel better. Jim._


	14. Chapter 14

The microwave began that annoying beeping to indicate that his leftover Chinese food was warmed, and Elliott Keeth moved quickly across the kitchen to hit the button that would end it. He removed the plate, lightly touching the rice to make sure it was warm enough, before padding out of the kitchen into the livingroom, and settling his bulk onto the sofa.

He put his feet up on the coffee table, and balancing his plate on his left hand, reached for the television converter with his right. He flicked rapidly from channel to channel, knowing that after midnight there was usually little to watch that was really intriguing. He passed the home shopping network where two blondes were hawking fake diamond jewellry, past infommercials trying to interest him in a home gym, a get-rich-quick real estate plan, a dehydrator, or some acne cream.

He paused for a moment when scantily clad, nubile young female bodies writhed around the screen, claiming that hot, lonely women were just waiting for his call at the opposite end of a 1-900 number. He watched them cavort, appreciating their firm, lithe forms, and their artifically enhanced busts. Sure, he was old enough to be their grandfather technically, but that didn't mean that he didn't like to look. He was getting older, but he wasn't dead. He grinned salaciously as he thought momentarily of a line from a country song that he'd heard on the car radio today. _'I'm not as good as I once was, but I'm as good once, as I ever was.' _

Dana could attest to that. If she'd been here, of course. He sighed aloud. God knew he loved the woman, and truth was most of the time she was right about things, but so often they found themselves at odds. Dana was balking again at their living together. She was insistent that if they were going to move in with one another, and take their relationship to the next level, that he would have to promise to quit smoking. Or at least promise not to smoke indoors any more.

He understood where she was coming from. And that she wasn't being totally unreasonable, given that just last month he had fallen asleep in this very room, with a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He glanced guiltily at the empty spot to his left where the Easyboy had formally sat. Dragged out to the curb a few weeks ago for the large item pick up, an unsightly, charred crater marring the armrest.

But he found himself stubbornly resistant to her pleas. He knew what she was feeling. Fear for him. Fear for herself. And that it came out of concern, not out of some need to control. And the truth was that Keeth really _wanted _to quit smoking. But like he'd said to Jim Brass last month, even though every January first he determined he'd never light up again, no more than a few days later he'd find himself once again cruising down Tobacco Road.

Elliott just didn't like other people telling him what to do. It was a failing of his, and one that he was honest about. It was something that had at times hindered his career. It was one of the main reasons for the breakdowns of his first two marriages. Neither Charlene nor Lynne had been able to deal with what they saw as his total, uncompromising selfishness. Both women had claimed, as they had packed their bags, that they still loved him, but that they couldn't live with him.

His thumb pressed the button and the channels cycled through once again. Ah, here was something that he could vegetate in front of for a while. Miami Vice reruns. Crockett and Tubbs. Keeth loved to watch cop shows. Especially the older, overdone ones. He liked to laugh at how far removed from reality they were.

Some of the newer cop shows though...he didn't like to tune into those. They were a little _too_ real sometimes. The viewing public seemed to eat them up, and there were many cops who did appreciate them. But Elliott felt that when he wanted entertaining, he didn't want to see something that was going to remind him of those parts of his job that he'd rather leave behind, tucked into his locker with his bullet proof vest. The things that he didn't want to think too deeply about.

He set down the convertor, picked up the chopsticks, and lost himself in the Hollywood version of the Miami law enforcement scene, as he finished off the plate of Sesame chicken, egg foo yung, and fried rice. Elliott's thoughts wandered from the programme, and he wondered if he should take a couple of sleeping pills and hit the sack. Or if he'd forgo the pills tonight, and have a couple of shots of whiskey instead.

A few months ago, when his insomnia had gotten so bad that he found himself dozing at work on occasion, Keeth had finally made an appointment with his doctor. The physician hadn't wanted to prescribe the pills initially. He had encouraged Elliott to examine whether or not there was any emotional or psychological reason why he might have trouble sleeping. And to try to determine that first, and possibly assist him through counselling.

Emotional or psychological reason? Hell yeah! Keeth knew _exactly _why he wasn't sleeping. But there was nothing that sitting in front of some shrink, baring his soul, was going to change or help him with. So he'd lied to the doctor. The truth was that Elliott was a year away from retirement, and he dreaded it. He thought constantly about how his life was going to change, and he couldn't see any silver lining in those gathering storm clouds.

He'd been a cop for almost his entire adult life. It was the only job he'd ever held. It was the one constant that had always given purpose to his life. It was more than a job really, being a cop was _who he was. _How did they expect a man to just stop being himself one day?

Sure, he knew that he was supposed to look forward to it. That this was his reward for all those years of hard work, and personal endangerment, and proportionately small financial recompensation. These were to be his golden years. When he could just relax and enjoy himself. Play some golf. Lounge around the pool. Visit his kids and grandbaby.

He hadn't seen Jr. and Shanika and baby Kyrie for almost two years now. Heck, 'baby' Kyrie was starting pre-school in the fall. Once he retired, Elliott could travel out to Vermont, and spend weeks at a time, reacquainting himself with his oldest son and his family. Or he could even head to Canada where Tyrone and his new Canadian wife Mara had started their recording business.

There were lots of things that he _could _do, Elliott knew. But the truth was, that he was afraid. Afraid that when he hung up that bullet proof vest for the last time, when he handed in his badge and turned over his gun, that all six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds of him, would just turn to dust and blow away on a warm Nevada wind.

How many guys had he watched retire, only to see dead within a year or two? It was as though without purpose, there was nothing for them to live for. Keeth felt with every fibre of his being that that would be his fate too. That with nothing to motivate him to get up in the mornings...one morning he just might not get up.

Some of the guys took jobs when they left the force, he knew. There were always places for ex-cops to land. Casino security. Or he could switch sides and become one of those cops that leant his expertise to fighting traffic tickets. He could start his own business, and prey on the fears of homeowners, and sell them expensive equipment to give them a false sense of safety as they locked themselves and their valuables in their big homes. He could man one of those little booths outside the ritzy gated communities. Waving the elite into and out of their mansion drives, while keeping the riff raff out.

Yeah...those were things to look forward to, he thought sarcastically. Keeth got up from the sofa and returned to the kitchen, setting his plate in the sink, and reaching into the cupboard above it for the bottle of Crown Royale. He was surprised to see that there were only a half dozen ounces or so left. He hadn't realized he'd been drinking so much lately. One more thing for Dana to nag him about. He shook his head, his mahogany features contrite. That wasn't fair. Dana wasn't a nag, and she'd never said anything to him about his drinking. Even though he knew that sometimes his intake was a little on the excessive side.

Dana was a good woman, and he was lucky to know her. She was the first white woman that he'd dated seriously. He wasn't prejudiced or anything, it was just the way things had worked out that his first two wives had been Black and bi-racial. Dana was a good-looking woman. Just turned fifty, though she could pass for younger. She kept herself fit and trim. Ate well and excercised regularly. Pampered herself and always looked real nice. Made frequent appointments to get her blonde hair styled and streaked, and to have her fingers and toes painted. And she always smelled so good...like a garden of flowers.

Dana was smart too, and successful in her job. She was a mortgage broker, and had turned her area of expertise into a nice little nest egg for herself. She was always buying, improving and flipping properties for a profit, and was currently sitting on a nice chunk of land outside of Laughlin that she was sure would be zoned for development soon. She wasn't hoity-toity about money either. She didn't care that he really didn't have any, beyond his pension fund and a small cabin that he had in the mountains near Vegas.

They were good together, Elliott knew. They helped one another to relax and to decompress after their high pressure jobs. And they were great in the sack together. He poured a generous measure of the whiskey, smiling to himself at the thought. Her libido matched his, and he couldn't recall a time where she'd ever deflected his interest because of a 'headache'.

He tucked the bottle under his arm, and carrying his glass he returned to the livingroom. He lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs. Damn it, he _enjoyed_ smoking. It was getting so that it was a politically incorrect habit though. It had been a few years since he'd been able to light up at his desk at work. Restaurants and such had smoking and non-smoking areas now. Smokers were piriahs who were ostracized, given dirty looks, and banished to the fringes of society.

Okay, rationally he knew that it _wasn't_ good for him. He regarded the slim, white, paper-wrapped tube in his hand, and the red glowing ember at it's tip. Sometimes he _did_ wonder what his lungs looked like on the inside. Was it worth it, really to keep doing this to himself? Wouldn't it be much nicer, in the long run, to be able to come home every day to Dana's feminine softness and honeyed kisses, rather than these cancer sticks?

If Jim Brass could quit, Keeth could too. Hell, he remembered how much Brass had smoked when they had worked together back in Vegas years ago. The man had been a proverbial chimney. A real chain smoker, lighting his next cigarette off the previous one. Maybe Elliott couldn't quit cold turkey the way Brass had done. But he could see about getting that patch. He knew a few guys who'd had success with that. Dana would be ecstatic.

Keeth refilled his glass, then stared at the pack on the side table. Maybe he should just crumple them up now and toss them away. Get the temptation out of the house. The thought panicked him for a moment. No point in resorting to such drastic measure after all of these years. The pack was almost done. A few more wouldn't hurt him. Then when it was finished, he could decide what he wanted to do about that particular albatross around his neck.

Miami Vice had ended and Barney Miller had taken it's place. Now there was a show that Keeth liked. He found the absurdity hilarious. He sipped on his drink while he immersed himself in the episode. Part way through, Keeth found himself battling to keep his eyes open. Strange. He had figured he'd be up for hours yet. He actually dozed for a moment, jerking himself back up out of his slumber, sloshing the amber liquid from his glass onto his jeans.

Well, no point looking a gift horse in the mouth. Elliott decided that he might as well get to his bed before the fatigue passed. It would be nice to lay his head on a pillow and actually drift off right away. First, he'd just give himself a minute. He set the glass on the table, so that he wouldn't spill his drink again, and leaned his head back, touching the wall behind the sofa.

Keeth felt funny. Groggy. His mouth pasty. He knew instinctively that something was wrong. He hadn't had enough to drink that he should be affected like this by the liquor. He struggled against the blackness, feeling as though he was swimming in a thick, lightless void.

He didn't hear the click of the apartment door as it opened, or the firm sound of it closing again in it's frame. It wasn't until he felt the pressure on his shoulders, pushing him into a prone position, that he forced his lids open. His vision was blurry, but he could make out a hazy figure. Dana? He tried to form his lips around the name, but could expell no sound from his throat. He closed his eyes again.

Something was being forced between his slack lips, pressing against his teeth. Keeth parted them, and tried to push the offending object out with his tongue. He could smell the familiar acrid scent of cigarette smoke, as it wafted up through his nostrils and into the cavern of his mouth. He tried to turn his head away, but found that his body rejected his commands.

Keeth thought that he must be dreaming. He felt a smooth pressure on the fingers of his right hand. Someone was manipulating their movements. He felt them close, recognizing the spongy feel of a cigarette filter beneath them. What the devil was going on?

His eyelids flew open again by supreme force of will. Keeth could see that a shadowy form was bent over him. He felt his arm being crooked, and his hand pushed back to nestle between the two overstuffed pillows that made up the sofa's back. This was no dream. _Something was very wrong here. _

He tried to concentrate on the outline of the other person in the room. Trying to will his foggy head to clear. He could smell something burning, and feel heat near his right hand. As desperately as he tried, he just couldn't move. He tried to call out, but his lips seemed gummed together. Someone had drugged him, Keeth thought with panic. Someone had drugged him, and was in his apartment now. The stench that assailed him now was his sofa, catching light beneath a smoldering cigarette. _He had to MOVE! Had to get out of here!_

Keeth had a moment of clarity. The letter that had come a couple of weeks ago. The one that he hadn't been able to understand, and how tossed carelessly into the trash. And Denny Martens...the hit-run-accident. _Had Denny gotten a letter too?_

He felt the darkness pulling him under again, even as his body quaked with anger and fear and tears squeezed out onto his dark cheeks. Ironically, Elliott Keeth could hear his own voice, on his inner ear, as he replayed the words he had said to Jim Brass after they had laid Denny Martens to rest.

_"Helluva thing, death. You just never know when your number is gonna be up." _


	15. Chapter 15

Flipping the laptop screen down, Brass rubbed his hands across his tired eyes. They were making the darned things smaller and smaller all of the time. Just like cell phones. The only problem was, his eyes weren't getting any younger and his fingers weren't reducing in size proportionately. They were still normal sized people living in a tiny technical world. For a moment he thought longingly of big, heavy phones that had to plug into the wall, and comfortable holes that you had to place your finger into to dial. Of receivers that actually stretched from your ear to your mouth. Of big typewriters with large keys. Or even further back...gasp!...pens and paper.

They still called it 'paperwork' but it really wasn't anymore. Just form after electronic form that had to be filled in with meticulous detail from the beginning to end of every case. Truth be told, there were some upsides. No more 'fill this out in triplicate'. Triplicate could be easily created with a touch or two of the mouse. It was just that the darned constant glow of the screen seemed to irritate him sometimes. He needed a break.

Brass pushed the chair back from his desk, and rose to his feet. He figured he'd grab a coffee, but not that swill that could be found in the breakroom. There was a twenty-four hour coffee and donut shop around the corner. It was not a fluke that they'd chosen to locate within steps of the city's largest police station. Brass knew that even if they never had a single civilian customer there were enough uniforms to keep the place in the black. Some stereotypes had a good basis in reality.

The moment that he stepped into the front office, intending to let Sherry know that he was going to be out of the building for ten or fifteen, Brass knew that something was up. There were a group of cops standing near her desk, everyone looking sombre. _What now? _he wondered, not really wanting to know.

O'Reilly saw him first, and held his gaze, shaking his head sadly. The other detective ran a hand through his close-cropped, grizzled, military style cut, and raised his bulky frame from where it had rested against a bank of filing cabinets. "Just got some bad news," he said quietly. "Call came in from the Laughlin PD. Elliott Keeth is dead."

Brass's gut spasmed as the blood in his veins turned to ice. Every one of his senses began to sound an alarm. He pictured Denny Martens' body, battered by the SUV, lying in the middle of the street. Two cops, two men that he had known, dead in a short span of time. All of his instincts about Denny's death, that had remained buried but had not been entirely assuaged, surged to the fore. First Denny, now Elliott. "Hit and run?" Brass guessed, his dark eyes narrowing.

O'Reilly looked confused, and tilted his head to the left. "Hit and run?" he repeated uncertainly. "No. There was a fire. Looks like he fell asleep smoking." He studied the other detective curiously.

It was Brass's turn to look confused. He had been so _sure_ that O'Reilly was going to confirm his suspicion that Keeth had died in the same seemingly accidental manner that Martens had. But the two deaths had been unrelated. Martens'...a vehicular accident. Keeth's...careless smoking. Brass felt his grief turn to anger. What a stupid, senseless way to go. He wondered if Keeth had had a smoke detector. Or if, as was so often the case in fire tragedies, he had one but the batteries had been dead.

Brass remembered talking to Keeth in Coopers. He recalled that the other man had mentioned a girlfriend. _Significant other, _Keeth had amended with a chuckle. "What about the girlfriend? Is she okay?"

"I never heard anything about a girlfriend, or about any other victim," O'Reilly reported. "You'd have to check with Laughlin though. It just happened tonight. I don't even know if next of kin has been notified. Someone in Laughlin broke protocol. They knew he used to work here, and gave us a courtesy call. I don't think the fire department has even investigated the premises yet, or even whether or not they're still on the scene."

O'Reilly sighed. "Apparently the only way to identify the body was through dental, and the coroner did that right away from the records in Keeth's file. Pushed to get it done fast, because it was Keeth's address, and of course the guys there were pretty upset, and wanted to confirm if it was him."

Other voices joined the conversation, some who remembered working with Keeth reminiscing about him, and others who hadn't known him talking more generally about what a shame it was, to lose a life from such a preventable death. But Brass barely heard them.

Brass had two pictures of Keeth in his mind. One, of the man he had worked with years ago, the loud, gregarious giant who could always make him laugh. The Keeth who used to tease him at crime scenes, trying to alleviate the tension when sometimes things were too hateful and horrible to comtemplate, by doing his best impression of Dr. McCoy of Star Trek fame. He'd turn to Brass and his bass voice would boom out, _"He's dead, Jim!"_

And even though it was such a lame joke, Keeth never seemed to tire of it, and would resurrect it those times when he sensed his partner needed something to combat the ugliness of human nature. And even though others on the scene might raise eyebrows, or roll their eyes, and even though an outsider might be shocked at their irreverence, Brass had always chuckled at the words.

The other Keeth was the Elliott that Jim had run into at Coopers last month. The one whose parting words to him had been, _"Helluva thing, death. You just never know when your number is gonna be up." _Neither of them knowing how prescient that comment had been. A harbinger of Keeth's own limited time on earth. Brass swallowed hard at the realization, as the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end.

Coffee was the last thing on his mind, but Brass felt the need to get out of the building, into the open night air, and since he had already been planning to walk over to the donut shop, that was what he did. He ordered a large black coffee...none of that frou frou flavoured stuff for him...and sat at one of the tables. The cup sat untouched while Brass's thoughts swirled.

Memories of old friends. He thought about how close he once been to both men, Denny and Elliott. When he'd worked with them, the relationship and bond that had formed had been so strong and meaningful. In those days, they had shared everything. When you worked with another cop, when you gelled, you trusted one another implicity. Depended on one another for your lives. So it had been with both Martens and Keeth.

Brass reminisced about shared confidences from those days. About Denny's dreams for his family. Of Keeth's sorrow that his second marriage was deeply troubled. How could they go from being so close, to not ever getting together, or even picking up the phone for a quick call to touch base? It wasn't just him, Brass knew. It was the same for many people's friendships. The natural ebb and flow of life.

Sometimes, at a certain point in your life, circumstances threw you together with someone, and you got really close. And then when things changed, when there was physical distance between you, and that daily interaction whittled away, that closeness dissipated. It was still there, Brass guessed, on some level. The loss of both men cut him. And even though it had been years since he'd had that closeness with either of him, and even though the relationships had changed, he mourned what they had once shared and the men he had known.

_Deep thoughts, _Brass chided himself, reaching now for the cup, only to find that his coffee had cooled. The self-deprecation cast his mind back to a case that he had worked with Nick Stokes. He had been standing watch while Nicky had been going over the bedroom of a homicide victim. The woman had kept a tape recorder on the table beside the bed, and Stokes had conjectured what it might be for.

Brass had told him that perhaps she used it to record things that came to her in the night. Without thinking, he'd announced that he kept one beside his bed, in case during the night, while he slept or dreamed, important things came to him. Nick had given him a look of incredulity that had hurt.

_'What?' _he had asked Nicky, crossing his hands at the wrists, and giving a mock pout, _'I can't have deep thoughts?' _And then Brass had laughed as though it had all been a joke, and Nick had gotten a chagrined look to know his leg had been pulled.

The thing of it was that Brass _hadn't _been joking. Not entirely, anways. He didn't keep a tape recorder next to his bed, but he did have a notebook there. Because sometimes, in the deep of night, when he was more relaxed and not trying too hard, things _did_ come to him. Details of a case. Something he might have overlooked. Questions that should be recorded before they were lost to the light of day.

Brass wasn't the braniac that Gil Grissom was, he'd be the first to admit that. But he'd done well in college, where he'd gone on an academic scholarship. And there was more to him that the guy with the gun who was the muscle, who secured the scenes, and slapped on the handcuffs, and interrogated the suspects. He'd play the role though, and let the CSIs shine as the brains of the operation. He had nothing to prove to anyone.

Brass took the cup to the men's room, pouring the liquid down the sink, rather than tossing the full cup into one of the waste receptacles by the shop's front doors, where it would leak through the bag and make a mess for someone else to clean up. He paused in front of the mirror, examining the face that stared back at him.

He had five decades under his belt, and the craggy, deeply-lined puss to prove it. Heck, even his eyebrows were turning grey now. How many more years were there in his future? Did everyone have a pre-ordained purpose, an already charted out lifespan, or was it all just fate? _"Helluva thing, death. You just never know when your number is gonna be up." _

He entered the lobby of the precinct and was hailed at once by the jovial voice of Brian Mobley. The good sheriff was in high spirits tonight. Brass wondered why the other man was even here. Not working, certainly, Mobley never worked nights.

"Hey, Captain," Mobley said, dropping an arm over Brass's shoulders. His words were tainted with alcohol, but Brass wouldn't say the other man was drunk. "I was just on my way back from the Rampart. The mayor, his missus and I were taking in a new theatrical show. _Rainbow_. Kind of artsy, but a good time. I recommend it."

"Yeah? That's great," Brass acknowledged, unobtrusively shrugging the sheriff's arm from his back.

"Anyhow, we're going out on the mayor's yacht tomorrow, and it occured to me that perhaps Miss Laval would like to join us. I thought I had her number in my office, but can't seem to find it. I know that you hang around with Grissom and those CSIs a lot. You don't happen to have it by any chance, do you?" Mobley looked at him with expectant hope.

Brass was surprised that the sheriff hadn't made a move on the writer before now, after his obvious interest at the Kellerman's party. Or that he hadn't already secured her number and staked out her accommodations. He could just imagine Cecilia trapped on a boat with Mobley while he fawned all over her. She would hate that, Brass thought angrily.

He was about to suggest to Mobley that he just leave the writer in peace, but bit back the words. What business was it of his? Maybe Cecilia would like to go out with Brian Mobley. It was no concern of Jim's. Brass thought Mobley was a first class asshole, but hey he thought Conrad Ecklie was an asshole and look what a wonderful, warm and attractive woman Ecklie was married to. Either way, it had nothing to do with him.

As far as Brass knew, Cecilia still wasn't back at CSI. He hadn't been speaking with her though, or with Catherine, since Monday, even though he had wondered how Cecilia was doing. It was now Thursday night. Catherine Willows probably had Cecilia's phone number, Brass guessed. But he didn't see why he should volunteer that information. "No," he said curtly, "I don't."

Mobley shrugged. "I'll just get it from Janice in the morning, I suppose."

The sheriff seemed to have forgotten, or perhaps was unaware, that Cecilia was spending time with the graveyard shift now, and that he could call there looking for her. Well, that was Brian's problem. Brass regarded the other man coolly. "We got word tonight that a Laughlin detective, ex-LVPD, old friend of mine, was killed off-duty in a fire," he told Mobley. "Elliott Keeth."

Mobley looked thoughtful. "Keeth? Don't think I know him." The sheriff started to leave then turned back. "Sorry to hear that though," he remembered to say.

Brass's lips drew up in a sneer at the insincerity. "Thanks." He tried to imagine the gentle and compassionate Cecilia Laval with a self-centred, shallow jerk like Mobley. She deserved better than that.

"Well, night Captain," Mobley smiled, whistling to himself as he strode out of the lobby.

Brass just shook his head as he watched Mobley go. The talk of Grissom and the CSIs reminded Brass that he should let Grissom and Catherine know about Elliott Keeth's death. They had both known Keeth and worked with him at one time too. He reached for his cell phone, then hesitated. This was the kind of news that should be shared in person, not over the phone. He would run over to the lab and see if they were there.

Once more the coincidence of losing both men, niggled at Brass. The idea that there was something deeper, something malevolent here, continued to plague him. He would have to find out everything he could about Elliott's death. Was it really careless smoking...or was it arson? And if the two deaths were indeed not accidents, how were they connected? And why?


	16. Chapter 16

_Thank you for the continued support. It's nice to see new readers and to receive feedback. Thank you especially to beaujolais for your especially kind support, and for your consistent replies since the beginning. It means a lot to me. As long as even one person is enjoying this story with me, lol, I'll happily continue to post. :-)_

Catherine laid down the copper coin in front of him. "Penny for them."

Gil Grissom looked up at her with a wan smile. "They're worth at least a quarter," he shot back. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, allowing Catherine to perch on the edge of his desk.

Her lovely blue eyes appraised him. "I bet I can guess what you're thinking about anyways," she grinned, though her smile was tight. Less than twenty four hours ago Brass had come to the lab to let them know of Elliott Keeth's death. Another cop that they had once worked with, was dead. When your contemporaries started to pass on, whether it was age-related or not, you couldn't help wonder how many years of your own life stretched ahead. "Fate. The unfairness of life. Mortality."

Grissom inclined his silvered head. "To suspect your own mortality is to know the beginning of terror, to learn irrefutably that you are mortal is to know the end of terror." He removed his gold-rimmed glasses and set them next to her on the blotter. "Frank Herbert," he added.

"The science fiction guy?" she queried. Gil nodded. "You have a quote for everything, don't you?" she laughed lightly. "I bet you think you're pretty clever."

Grissom winked at her. "I find it drives the ladies wild with desire," he whispered jocularly, in an uncharacteristic moment of playfulness.

Catherine leaned towards him, shimmying her shoulders and tossing her red-gold hair. "Oh Gil!" she spoke breathlessly, with a phoney Southern accent. "Talk some more!" She blinked her lashes, getting into the spirit of things.

He brought his face close to hers so that she could feel his breath when he spoke. "The starting point of all achievement is desire," he said softly. "Napolean Hill."

Catherine fought back a giggle. "Please, please, oh Sir, stop for I fear I will lose all control!" She watched Grissom's eyes flicker, accessing his formidable memory.

"When we direct our thoughts properly, we can control our emotions," he suggested, leaning one hand on the desk next to her, his arm brushing her thigh.

Sara stopped short in the doorway, taking in the scene in front of her. Catherine was sitting on Grissom's desk, and they were close enough to be kissing. Grissom was whispering something to the blonde. There was something so _intimate_ in the tableau. Sara felt as though she'd been struck a physical blow.

She wanted to say something light-hearted and unaffected. To let them know that they had been seen, and that it didn't bother her one bit. _'Well isn't this cozy,' _she imagined herself laughing, while stepping into the room. Perhaps seeing them break apart guiltily. She would look at them both with a bored expression, hand Grissom the report, and then saunter back out, so that they would both understand that she didn't care what went on between them.

Sara didn't give a damn. Not a Goddamn. Her hand clenched on the sheaf of papers, and her vision swam. She turned suddenly on heel, and strode back down the corridor, her grand entrance forgotten. There was a tightness in her chest; an ache that radiated from the centre of her being. She rounded the next corner with such determination that she bowled into Warrick Brown.

"Easy, Girl," he cautioned, reaching to take her forearms, giving her one of those beautiful, lazy smiles that he could summon at will. "Forensics is not a full contact sport," he quipped.

_'Tell that to Grissom and stripper girl,' _Sara thought bitterly. "Sorry," she apologized instead.

"Where you off to in such a hurry?" Warrick asked, his green eyes inquisitive. "Did you give that report to Grissom?" He looked questioningly at the papers that she held.

"Uh, no, I remembered there was something I had to do first," Sara mumbled.

"You okay?" he queried consideringly.

"Oh, sure, uh huh," Sara said with forced brightness. She had to get out of this hallway. It was killing her to stand here. She didn't want to think about what was going on in Gil's office. She didn't want to have either he or Catherine find her right now.

It didn't take a genius, Warrick knew, to see that something was upsetting Sara. But he appreciated that she was a very private person and that he would never draw out whatever was bothering her, if she didn't want to share. He could respect that. "Look, I'm going that way. Do you want me to drop it off?"

Sara looked confused for a moment. "Oh, the report. Sure. Great. Thanks, Rick." She thrust it towards him, barely giving him time to receive it before she was moving past him.

Warrick watched her go. Wondering what Grissom had done this time. Shaking his head, he continued around the corner and towards the supervisor's office. He found Catherine sitting on Grissom's desk, both she and Gil laughing with the sort of hysterical relief that has more to do with a release of tension, than with the hilarity of a particular situation.

"You laughing with me, or at me?" he asked as he strode into the office.

Catherine swivelled on the desk, and Gil peered around her slender form, as they both glanced at him. "Just laughing death in the face, I guess you could say," Catherine replied.

She was glad that Gil had loosened up enough for a moment, to engage her in the exaggerated flirting that they had just enjoyed. He was always so serious, so distant, so ultra-conscious of boundaries. They had worked together long enough, watched one another's lives take enough twists and turns...from Eddie's betrayals and ultimately their divorce, to his death...to Gil's potential loss of hearing and possibly his career, and then his subsequent successful operation to correct his genetic disorder...that Catherine believed they _should_ be able to be comfortable with one another. She'd even killed a man to save Gil's life.

They had never really _talked _about any of those things though. Just as they had never really talked about his feelings for Sara Sidle. Catherine considered Gil a friend, despite the fact that he never shared or encouraged the usual confidences that normally defined a friendship. She suspected that he had a physical appreciation for her. She was confident in her appearance and without being vain she knew that most men did.

And she thought that Grissom was an attractive man, though not her type. But they had both known one another long enough to know that there was no _chemistry_ between them. Not the kind that made your veins sing with longing, that took your breath away, and that burned with a flame that you believed would consume you if left unquenched.

Warrick thought about Brass's visit last night. The news that he had shared about the fire that had claimed the life of a detective that Brass, Catherine and Grissom had worked with years ago. "Yeah," he said quietly. "It's rough." He placed the report in the wire mesh in-box on the desk. "That's the Jankowski case," Warrick told Grissom. "It's done."

"Thanks," Gil replied. "Do you know where Sara's at? I had a couple of questions for her."

Warrick shrugged his shoulders. "Around, I guess," he said lightly. His beeper sounded then and he checked it. "I've got a date in Trace. See you."

"I'll walk with you," Catherine told him, hopping from the desk. "I've got to go to Ballistics. Cecilia's there with Bobby." She looked at Gil. "I want my penny back," she grinned impishly.

Grissom picked it up and flipped it at her, watching as she gracefully plucked it out of midair. "You didn't even need it. Greg's Swami has nothing on you."

Later in the breakroom, while Catherine was recounting for Cecilia what had gone on during Michael Strickland's evidentiary hearing, Catherine's pager went off. She read the message. "Grissom wants me in his office. Let's go see what he wants."

Cecilia had felt well enough to return to the lab for the first time this evening. She had managed to fight off her flu by sleeping the better part of the last few days away. She hadn't gone anywhere or done anything, including working on the notes for her novel. She had simply rested, trying to get her strength back and to shake the last vestiges of whatever bug had thrown her for a loop. She was still a bit fatigued, but felt well enough to be back with the CSIs. She had been eager to learn what had happened at the hearing, and was relieved to hear that Strickland had been remanded for trial, and a date set for that fall.

Cecilia's phone had rung early that morning, waking her from her slumber. She'd rolled over in bed, groping around without opening her eyes, and had brought the receiver to her ear. An enthusiastic male voice had boomed out 'Good morning!'. For just a moment, still not yet entirely released from sleep's grip, Cecilia had thought that the caller was Jim Brass and had felt a flutter of pleasure.

But the caller had quickly identified himself as Sheriff Brian Mobley. Cecilia had listened as he apologized for calling so early, and then invited her to spend the day with himself and the Kellermans on the couples' yacht, sailing Lake Mead. While the idea of going out on the lake was appealing, Cecilia balked about spending an entire day with the sheriff. She appreciated being included, but was grateful that she could give the excuse that she was recovering from the flu and wasn't quite up to the outing.

Mobley had said that he understood, and suggested that they try another time. He had mentioned that he had available to him great seats at any of the Vegas shows, and that if there was something that interested Cecilia she had only to let him know and it would be his pleasure to arrange it and to escort her.

Gil wasn't alone when Catherine and Cecilia entered his office. Jim Brass stood talking with him, his arms crossed over his chest, a worn expression on his lined features. Both men turned towards the women. Catherine could read the tired resignation in their eyes, and her pulse quickened. It was almost a deja vu from last night, though without the additional sorrowed pall. "Tell me," she ordered without preamble.

Brass uncrossed his arms and tucked one hand into a front pants pocket. His dark eyes beneath knitted brows, their depths shadowed and unfathomable, held hers. "I just got word that Michael Strickland killed himself in his jail cell this evening."

Cecilia gave a sharp intake of breath as her eyes flew back and forth between Catherine and Jim. Catherine's features were inscrutable. She looked at Brass, then beyond him to Gil, and finally over at Cecilia. Catherine sighed. "Damn," she muttered at last.

Cecilia was surprised by her own reaction to the news. She had thought Stickland to be a pox on society. The lowest form of scum. Deserving of death, actually, for the henious crime he had perpetrated on Carly Palmateer. Intellectually, she felt that she should be _glad_ to know he was dead. What he had done would affect the girl for her whole life. And Cecilia believed that anyone who harmed a child _should_ forfeit their own life. So why then, did she have such mixed emotions?

"How?" Catherine was asking, pushing a lock of strawberry blonde hair back behind her ear.

Brass's words were strained. "He cut his wrists, and his throat, with a piece of razor. When the guards found him he'd already bled out."

Cecilia wondered why a suspect awaiting trial would have access to a razor blade. Brass seemed to anticipate the question and turned his gaze to her. "County jail security isn't quite as tight as one of the pens. It's more of a holding area for guys awaiting trial, or serving small sentences. No one had ordered a suicide watch on Strickland, there'd been nothing to warrant that." Brass lifted his shoulders. "Guys can get all kinds of things smuggled in. Or they can be pretty creative when it comes to turning something into a weapon. Strickland might have made it himself, or bartered or bought it from another con."

"Who's on the case?" Catherine said suddenly. There would have to be an investigation. A prisoner had died in police custody.

"I sent Nick and Sara," Grissom told her.

"The Palmateer case was my case," Catherine told him.

"Exactly," Grissom replied levelly. "We don't want a conflict of interest."

"Has Lisa Palmateer been notified?" Catherine wondered.

"We'll hold out til morning," Brass said. Though he doubted that either mother or child had slept well or much since the child had been abused. They were trying to keep it out of the press til then as well.

"I want to go with you, when you tell her," Catherine spoke insistently. Brass nodded. "It was an air-tight case," Catherine continued quietly. "But you never know. He didn't even wait for the trial. That must have been a hell of a lot of guilt to carry around."

"Nothing is more wretched than the mind of a man conscious of guilt. Titus Maccius Plautus," Grissom spoke thoughtfully.

Catherine remembered the levity that had surrounded them earlier, pertaining to Gil and his quotes. But there was none of that left in the air. The tension had crept back in. That oppressive weight that seemed to suck all of the light and air from a room. She wasn't sorry that Strickland was dead. She believed that some men deserved to die for their crimes. She had even attended a state sanctioned execution before.

But there was something about it happening this way. By his own hand. Before the trial. It was far better for Carly Palmateer, Catherine believed. Not to have to testify. Not to have any of the horrific details of her abuse discussed in the daily paper or on the nightly news for weeks, or even month, on end. There would be no lengthy stretching out of her pain for public display. The child could begin to heal now. And Strickland would never hurt anyone again.

Cecilia observed the shadowed eyes of the criminalists and the detective. There was no joy in their words. No sense of pleasure in their body language. They had worked hard to apprehend Strickland, to tie him to his crime with irrefutable proof, and to ensure that he would stand trial for what he had done to Carly Palmateer. They would have thrown everything they had into that trial, and asked for the stiffest sentencing. There was no love lost for a soulless monster like Strickland.

She supposed that it spoke of their own souls, that no matter how much they might despise Michael Strickland, no matter how much they might feel relief at his death, there was no mood of celebration now. Just this quiet introspection.

The silence was broken at last by Catherine. "Okay, after all that's happened lately, I think that what we need is a night out on the town," she suggested forecfully with a smile. "I'm off tomorrow night, and you are too, Gil. How about you, Jim?"

"I'm on, but I could switch it, I think. A couple of guys owe me a favour," Brass replied.

"Griss?" Catherine queried.

The supervisor inclined his head. "I don't have any plans. Sure."

Catherine nodded her satisfaction. "How does that sound, Cecilia?"

Cecilia had wondered if she was to be included. "Fine, thank you," she answered. The thought of going out with the three of them was something that she looked forward to. She looked quickly at Grissom and Jim Brass, searching for irritation or disappointment on their features and was relieved not to find it.

Brass looked at the writer thoughtfully. Just that day, a package had arrived at the station for him, by courier. He'd come in to work to find it on his desk. A brightly wrapped package with a large bow, and a small card. He'd read the sentiment. _Thank you for your thoughtfulness. Cecilia._ Wonderingly, he had unwrapped the package to find a bottle of Chivas Regal, a premium whiskey.

He recalled that he had been drinking scotch at the Kellerman's party. Cecilia's observant writer's eyes must have noted the detail. Brass had smiled to himself, feeling touched that she had remembered his preference, and that she had thought to do this, unnecessary though it might be. It had been a very generous thank you gift.

He wondered now if Cecilia had said anything to Catherine about his visit on Monday with the soup and the medicines. He felt his cheeks warm, then mentally chided himself for his embarassment. It was no big deal, his stopping by. There was nothing to hide. He'd done something decent, and in return she had shown her appreciation. That was what people did.

And good manners called for him to thank Cecilia and to acknowledge that he had received the whiskey, before she was forced to ask about it to see if it got there all right. It would be rude for him to just walk out of Gil's office now without saying anything to the novelist. Brass cleared his throat and waited until his dark eyes caught hers.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better, Cecilia," he began. "And thank you for the whiskey, although that wasn't necessary. You have good taste." He smiled at her.

Cecilia laughed lightly. "Actually, the clerk at the liquor store does," she admitted. "I'm glad it got there all right. And you're very welcome. I appreciated everything."

Cecilia detected genuine pleasure in the detective's eyes. She was happy to know that the gift had been received and that he would enjoy it. After the sheriff had called this morning, waking her, she had gotten up and done some work. Mid-morning she had conceived the idea of sending a gift basket or something to Brass to thank him for all he had done on Monday. After checking over a couple of websites and looking at some of the baskets created and offered for men, Cecilia had realized that she didn't know that much about Brass. His likes and dislikes. His interests and hobbies. But she did remember that he had been drinking Scotch the night of the Kellerman's party.

So she had driven to an upscale liquor store, and made her request, and after receiving some guidance had purchased the bottle of Chivas Regal. She'd stopped for wrapping paper and a gift card, and then taken it back to the apartment to ready. Cecilia had no idea what the captain's home address was, so she had arranged for a courier to pick it up at her apartment and deliver it to the police department.

Cecilia hadn't said anything to Catherine about Jim Brass's visit. Standing there now, she wondered why she hadn't. It would have been natural, when Catherine had asked her how she had made out in the past few days, to mention Brass's mission of mercy. But for some reason, she had kept that to herself.

Catherine's blue eyes went from one to the other with interest. _'Hmmm, what is this all about?' _she thought curiously. It seemed as though she had missed something. Something between the detective and the novelist, that warranted investigation. She'd have to find a way to draw it out of Cecilia later, Catherine thought, raising a finely arched brow.


	17. Chapter 17

_This chapter was getting too long, so I decided to break it into two, to make it easier to read, and to post the first portion now. Thank you for reading, and I hope that you enjoy it. Cathy._

Cecilia was late, and felt that familiar niggle of anxiety. She prided herself on her punctuality. Cecilia thought that people who were regularly dilatory in their interactions with others appeared thoughtless and disrespectful, and she hated to appear that way, and found it distressing. She always made a point of leaving early enough to arrive at her destination well in advance of the time she was expected. Whether it was for meetings in a professional capactiy, or for some appointment she had arranged, or even for a social gathering such as this. Cecilia hurried across the carpeted floor of the restaurant, following the young hostess who was taking her to the table where undoubtedly Catherine, Gil and Jim were already waiting for her. She hated to do that to someone, and knowing that she was almost half an hour past the time that Catherine had suggested they meet, Cecilia mentally berated herself.

All thoughts and concerns of her tardiness and the negative character traits it might project were pushed aside as her dark eyes picked out the table and the familiar faces seated around it. There was a new face there, one that Cecilia was not familiar with, and it was this addition that caused her to forget her worry over being late. The woman was a very attractive blonde, and the backless, black dress that she wore clung to her soft curves and the long, lean line of her legs.

The woman was laughing, and in response there were smiles on the faces of the CSIs and the detective. She was leaning across the table, one hand pale against the dark fabric of the sleeve of Jim Brass's shirt. Cecilia's throat felt tight. She had just assumed, when neither Grissom nor Brass had brought a date to the Kellermans' party, that both men were unattached. It hadn't occured to her that there might have been other reasons for their going solo that night. A partner who worked, or was feeling under the weather. She knew that neither man was married. Gil never had been, and Jim had been married at one time, but divorced for many years.

Cecilia had thought that it would just be the four of them this evening. In a relaxed social setting, where she could begin to learn to get to know the others in a more personal way. She had looked forward to that all day. Cecilia felt the heat of foolishness as she recalled how she had spent the afternoon shopping, looking for something to wear. She recalled the time and care she had put into her appearance getting ready this evening. And she was struck by the dismayed knowledge, as she watched the well-manicured hand slip away from Brass's arm, that in the back of her mind...she had been doing it for Jim.

As the hostess retreated, Cecilia mustered up a winning smile, gritting her teeth and readying herself to be pleasant and to appear unflustered by the introduction that would be forthcoming.

"There she is," Catherine remarked with pleasure displaying no censure for having been kept waiting.

There were only four chairs surrounding the round surface of the table, and Cecilia cast her gaze about for an extra one to pull up.

"Rachel, this is Cecilia Laval. Cecilia, this is Rachel Dixon," Catherine was saying.

The blonde rose from her chair, extending a hand towards the writer. Cecilia took it automatically, deeply conscious of the other woman's natural beauty. Rachel Dixon was near her age, Cecilia imagined, but either blessed with enviable genetics or someone who spent a great deal of time on her appearance and overall fitness. "Nice to meet you," Cecilia murmured, finding herself unable to look at Jim Brass.

Instead of taking her seat again, the blonde leaned across the table, and Catherine rose to reach towards her. The two women embraced for a moment. "It was good to see you again, Cath," Rachel was saying. "It's been too long. I'll give you a call...you still at the same number?" Catherine nodded. "We'll get together, have a few drinks, and really talk about old times." She laughed. Rachel smiled at the two men. "It was nice to meet you both." They returned the sentiment.

Catherine took the chair that the other woman had vacated, fighting for composure, while a myriad of emotions washed over her. Relief that Rachel Dixon was no more than an old friend of Catherine's. Embarassment at her initial thoughts, that the woman was Jim Brass's companion, and that her disappointment had been so swift and deep. Confusion at being forced to acknowledge that her interest in the detective was more than professional.

Cecilia smiled at Gil first, seated on her right, then Catherine across from her, and finally, recouping her calm, to Brass, on her left. "I'm sorry that I was late," she apologized. "I made a wrong turn, and got lost, then found myself on a series of one way streets." She laughed lightly. "I had quite the tour of the city, at any rate."

Jim had considered getting Cecilia's number and calling her to see if she wanted to share a cab that evening. He had to pass close to her apartment anyways, on the way from his own. But he had decided against it, not sure whether or not she had already made arrangements for a ride with Catherine or Gil. As well, he didn't want to make the novelist uncomfortable by presuming a greater level of acquaintanceship than was there. He had stopped by with the soup and the medicine, and he was glad that he had. But he didn't want to be seen as insinuating himself too closely into her life. He regretted now that he hadn't made the offer, knowing that she had had trouble finding her way about a new city.

Cecilia looked lovely tonight, Brass thought. Her long, dark hair gleamed with healthy vitality. The pallor of the flu had passed and her skin had it's customary, sun-kissed glow. She was wearing a cream-coloured, two-piece dress, of some kind of soft velvet or velour. It had a fitted bodice, long, lace sleeves, and a close-fitting skirt that came to just above the knee. Cecilia was curvy, rather than model thin, but dressed to accentuate her womanhood, rather than to diguise it, unashamed of her generous proportions. Cecilia's features were honest and open, her dark eyes frank, projecting a vulnerability that appealed to his protective nature. She was soft and feminine, and attractive in the kind of quiet way that stole up on a man.

Catherine's friend, Rachel, when Brass had glanced up at her as she had slid onto the chair next to him, had had the kind of overt, stunning beauty guaranteed to take his breath away, and get his libido fired up. She had a hot, taut body, and a leonine grace that made him sure that she had been a dancer, just as Catherine had been. Rachel Dixon was the kind of woman who turned heads, and would generally make him lose his. Jim had always had an appreciation for beautiful, sexy women. On occasion, it had been his undoing.

When Rachel had sat down, the black dress accentuating her...assets...his eyes had been drawn immediately to the alluring expanse of her decolletage. Oddly, Brass had found his gaze straying though. Not just once, but again and again. Beyond the blonde, towards the entrance of the restaurant. Not content to partake of the pro-offered feast, but instead seeking a different form of sustinence. He had been caught off guard to realize that he couldn't stay focused on the lovely Rachel...because he was waiting expectently for Cecilia. This uncharacteristic, unchauvanistic and troubling self-admittance had caused Brass to hurriedly down the remainder of his scotch, disconcerted at the revelation.

"You drove?" Catherine asked in surprise. "Well, I plan on having a few drinks...and then maybe a few more...so I brought a designated driver." She crooked a thumb at Grissom. "I'm sorry, if we'd known we would have picked you up." He nodded his agreement.

"It's fine," Cecilia assured her. "I just really hate to be late." A waiter appeared, and Cecilia ordered a glass of dry, red wine. Jim Brass requested a refill on whatever he had been drinking...scotch, she surmised. Catherine asked for two orders of bruschetta, that they could share while they decided what they wanted for dinner.

The restaurant was exactly the kind of place that Cecilia would have chosen herself. Dark wood gleamed on the walls. Jewel-toned decor added a sumptuous richness. Persian rugs, over thick, cushiony underpadding, covered the floors. Subdued lighting, with tiffany-style shades hung over each circular table. A small bud vase with a single, blood red rose injected a sense of nature. Votive candles in ruby-coloured holders, flanked the vase, and flickered in the unseen currents of air. There were no tablecloths on the highly polished and lacquered tables. Fabric of a rich tapestry, in emerald, and wine, and gold, completely covered the comfortable, high-backed chairs. Dark green napkins were fanned out and tucked into water glasses. They were promptly removed by their server, and set in their laps, while ice water poured from a pewter jug.

The crowd was older, the establishment catering more to baby boomers looking for a quiet evening out, rather the frenzied atmosphere of many of the clubs along the strip. Cecilia saw that there was a wooden dance floor, towards the back, and to the left of that a gleaming, black, baby grand piano, currently silent. When Catherine had suggested a _night on the town_, Cecilia hadn't been sure what to expect. She wasn't much of a bar hopper, and bright lights, disco balls and loud music with an incessant beat that caused the ground to reverberate under her feet, had been known to bring on a migraine. This though...this was perfect. Classy and intimate.

Once their drinks had arrived, Brass raised his in a toast. "To Elliott," he said, subdued. Catherine and Gil raised their glasses. Cecilia hesitated, wondering if she should join the toast since she didn't know the man, then decided that an expression of respect was never the wrong thing to do, and touched her glass against the trio of others with a soft clink.

Brass was waiting for the fire department to finish it's investigation, and was eager to read the report, to see if there was anything at all suspicious about Keeth's death, though on the surface it appeared to have been an accident. The investigator refused to answer any questions, or make any speculations, until he had finished processing the scene and all of the evidence. The coroner in Laughlin had finished the autopsy, and while the official cause of death was smoke inhalation, they were still waiting on results from toxicology.

The impression that Brass had gotten from the Laughlin PD was that Keeth had most likely fallen asleep on the sofa while smoking. Initially, everything pointed to an accident, just as it had in Denny Martens' death. But Brass couldn't shake his intuition that the two cases were related somehow, and that there was something bigger that underlay the coincidental loss of both men, just a month apart. If the Laughlin report determined arson...or if there was anything even slightly suspicious about the circumstances of Keeth's death...Brass was going to re-open Denny's file.

Dinner selections were made. The bruschetta was brought to the table. Conversation turned to lighter topics, as the three shared some of the funnier aspects of their work over the years. Despite the seriousness of their jobs, there were less stressful, and even comical moments and cases that had sounded like something out of a Saturday Night Live line-up.

Catherine shared the story of a drug case she and Gil had worked, where the suspect had lived outside of Las Vegas on a small hobby farm. After interrupting the perp in the back work area of a small barn, in the process of removing cocaine from the balloons that had been transported into the U.S. in the stomache of a mule...the slang term for someone who was a drug courier...the officers on the scene had watched in disbelief as a large billy goat had gobbled up the remaining evidence of the intact balloons.

They had brought the goat in to the CSI lab, in the back of a cruiser, and Grissom had been called down to take charge of the 'suspect'. An x-ray on the cantankerous goat had revealed six balloons in the contents of it's stomache. After consulting with a local vet, Grissom had administered a laxative, then had had to wait for the animal to void itself, so that he could recover the evidence.

"He had to sit there all night," Catherine chuckled, "waiting for the goat to do it's thing. It was a smelly old ornery beast too. Watching him babysit it, and then wade through the...waste...was one of the funniest things I've ever seen," she admitted. "As you can guess, he took a lot of ribbing after that case," Catherine smiled at her boss.

Grissom shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly. "One of the things you learn early on about this job, is to expect the unexpected."

That lead naturally into Cecilia asking each of them how they decided on their profession. Gil told her that he had become interested in entomology as a young boy, after spending a good deal of time with a favourite uncle who was an amateur entomologist. He had been fascinated with insects and arthropods, and readily absorbed the information that his uncle shared with him. Soon even that wasn't enough, and Gil was making trips to local museums, and talking with professional entomologists. As a teen he would sneak into lectures at the local university, while other young people his age were getting together to go roller skating, or gathering at the local burger joint, or cuddling up in pairs at the drive-in.

Entomology was his first love and his chosen field and Gil had done extensive graduate and post-graduate work, in the U.S. and abroad, travelling to study some of the more exotic species in tropical countries. Gradually, as the field of forensics was developing and broadening and people began to realize the correlation between the two areas of expertise, he had shifted his interest. Grissom had brought with him his wealth of knowledge and world-class reputation as an entomologist, which greatly increased his stature as a forensic scientist.

"The best cases," Gil told Cecilia, "are the ones where I get to combine the two."

"Growing up," Catherine spoke next, "I was never really encouraged to live by my brains. Before I became a criminalist, I was a dancer." She paused, gathering a deep breath. She wasn't ashamed of having danced, she had never done anything illegal. She had never used the drugs that often flowed around that scene. She had never offered to do more for the men who came to watch her, than dance, or supplemented her income on her back. But Catherine knew that there was still a bit of a social stigma to stripping. And she realized that she had come to like and respect Cecilia in the time she had spent with her and didn't want the other woman to think less of her. Though Catherine knew that if Cecilia did...then she wasn't the kind of person whose respect she really wanted anyways. "An exotic dancer," she continued, her blue eyes watching the dark ones for signs of judgement.

Cecilia's features expressed mild surprise. Catherine certainly had the beauty and the grace to be a dancer, she thought. For a moment she had a hard time reconciling the no-nonsense, take charge, analytical Catherine that she had come to know, with someone who took her clothes off to put on a show for an audience. Cecilia knew that she was far too modest and couldn't do something like that...even if she'd had the body and the talent for it...but she didn't think anything negative about women who did. While this bit of insight was surprising, she was not shocked and she didn't feel any differently about the criminalist.

"Kudos to anyone who can dance in stillettos," Cecilia said off-handedly with a small smile.

Catherine smiled back, relieved that she had shared her deep dark 'secret' and that the other woman hadn't branded her for it. "Yeah, that's a killer," she chuckled. "Anyhow, we had a cop who used to come in sometimes. A detective. We struck up a friendship. He used to tell me about cases he was working on, or had worked, and encourage me to find the important details, and to solve the mystery. At first, he had to prompt me a lot, but I got really good at delving into things and seeing the nuances. I'd always loved puzzles as a kid, and it was fun to stretch my brain.

"I thought that it would be cool to work in that field, criminalistics, but I figured I'd already been out of school too long, and that my course in life was set." Catherine laughed lightly. "I was only in my twenties but I thought that was it, my future was carved in stone. It was actually Eddie who encouraged me to start taking some classes. It took me twice as long to get my degree as it normally would, and I kept dancing in the meantime, but in the end I did it." Pride shone in the vivid sapphire eyes. "Aside from Lindsey, it was the best thing Eddie ever did for me." There was a softness in the set of her pink lips, and a quiet regret in her voice.

There was an introspective lull in the conversation before Jim Brass broke in. "Oddly enough, I got my start as a exotic dancer too," he kidded, his voice light but his features drawn in mock seriousness. The combined laughter lightened the mood again.

Cecilia loved the sound of Jim's laugh, mellifluous and hearty, welling up from deep within his chest. He looked nice this evening, dressed in a long-sleeved, indigo blue linen shirt, casually unbuttoned at the throat, and charcoal grey pants. Her eyes traced the planes and crevices of his interesting, clean-shaven visage, which was becoming more and more familiar to her.

"Actually," Brass was saying now, "I wanted to be a cop for as long as I can remember. My dad was on the force, so it runs in the family. My brother Peter and I used to play cops and robbers all the time growing up. The kind of unhibited, un-PC play that parents discourage now. Lots of shooting, and make-believe bloody stand-offs and melodramatic bad guy deaths." He chuckled at the memory. "It's wasn't until I got older that I learned it wasn't quite that exciting, and that the good guys don't always win. To paraphrase one of the heavyweight greats, there's a lot more to police work than shooting. There's not getting shot, for instance." He winked at them.

Cecilia's dark eyes danced. She knew that quote, as it had originally been uttered. _'There's more to boxing than hitting. There's not getting hit, for instance. _"George Foreman," she said excitedly.

Brass looked surprised. He winked at the writer, and picked up his glass, tapping it against hers, where it gave a musical ring. "I'm impressed," he told her admiringly. "You a fight fan?"

"My father is," Cecilia replied. "We used to watch the bouts together on t.v., when Ali was in his prime. The _Rumble in the Jungle_ with Foreman. The _Thrilla in Manilla _with Frazier"

"Classic stuff," Brass commented.

"I haven't really followed the sport in years," Cecilia admitted.

Catherine watched the exchange knowingly. She noted how both Brass and Cecilia unconsciously leaned in towards one another as they spoke. She saw the unusual openness in the detective's often guarded gaze, and the interest in the depths of Cecilia's dark orbs. Catherine had managed to learn from Cecilia last night that the whiskey she had sent to Brass had been a thank you for his stopping by on Monday with some chicken soup and medicine for her flu.

Catherine had been too stunned by that bit of information to even feel properly guilty for not having thought of the gesture herself. It hadn't seemed to her a typical Jim Brass modus operandi. Not to mention that from the beginning he had had derisive and sarcastic comments to make about the idea of the writer being at CSI, and had been open about his suspicions of her motives. He hadn't been outwardly rude to Cecilia, that Catherine had observed. But to learn that he had gone out of his way to be so solicitous and thoughtful, after his initial attitude towards her, had gotten the wheels turning.

The rushed way that Cecilia had explained the incident, and her avoidance of Catherine's gaze, had indicated that it was not such a small deal as the novelist was making it out to be. That Cecilia was obviously touched by Brass's kindness, but trying to minimize the meaning of his actions, was curious to Catherine. There was something mutual between the two, Catherine intuited, though just what it was, or where it might lead, she wasn't sure. In the meantime, it was interesting to watch Brass, his elbows on the table, speaking so animatedly with the writer about boxing, seeming to forget Catherine and Gil, while his eyes roved Cecilia's bronzed features.

The comment about shooting and being shot reminded Jim of the not so pleasant story that he still had to tell. As their dinners were placed in front of them, after a quick look at Catherine and Gil for confirmation, he began the tale of Holly Gribbs.

Cecilia listened quietly to the story of the young CSI agent, whose first day on the job and proven to be the last day of her life. A sombre, amorpheus cloud seemed to settle over the table. In turn, each of the three shared their version of the incident, and it was clear that each felt a responsibility for the young woman's death.

"In her last moments," Catherine said with an admiration tempered with sorrow, "Holly helped us find her killer. She scratched his face, preserving vital DNA evidence. I like to think that she saw his pager on the ground, and pushed it under a nearby chair. She knew what we would need, and she tried to give it to us." It had taken a while for Catherine to get over her own guilt for the circumstances that had led to Holly's death. Eventually she had stopped replaying over and over the private movie where she encouraged Holly not to quit, but to stick out the job til she solved her first case. Catherine would rewind that film, and edit it so that she agreed with the young woman that she couldn't cut it, that forensics wasn't for her, and instead of going to the scene of the robbery, Holly would march into PD and turn in her badge and her gun and walk out to live to a ripe old age.

"I couldn't blame Warrick," Grissom was saying, "for doing the exact same thing that I had done. I'd left Holly alone earlier at the scene of a convenience story robbery. Sure, it was against protocol, but people did it all of the time. Just because it turned out badly in one situation, and not the other, doesn't make Warrick responsible for what happened. When he showed up at another crime scene, and I determined he'd left Holly at the apartment, I could have said something then, insisted he go back or gone to check on her myself. We were all responsible, in a way, and for only one of us to lose his job, just wouldn't have been right."

Brass spoke again. "Ultimately though, as the guy in charge, the responsibility was mine. I put a rookie, totally green, out on the streets before assessing whether or not she was ready." His voice was quiet, realizing the enormity of his mistake. "I teamed her with Warrick not because she needed someone to watch her back, and because I thought he'd do the best job, but because I was ticked with him, for something totally unrelated."

Brass recalled how angry he'd been when Brown had gone over his head to get a warrant from a judge. "It was a punishment for Rick, not a safeguard for Holly. I knew his heart wasn't in it, and it was just a bad situation to create." His dark eyes were shadowed. "Truth is, I was P.O.d at having to hire Gribbs in the first place. Her mom was on the force, a lieutenant, so her job was pretty much guaranteed. I've always had a real aversion to anything that even had a whiff of nepotism," he confessed. "I gave her a harder time, and was a hell of a lot more cavalier about her first day, than I should have been, or normally would have been." The admittance seemed to pain him.

Gil remembered the scene in Brass's office and how hard the other man had been on the girl. He recalled the open animosity and the hostility that had once churned between Warrick and Brass.

"So, I lost my position with CSI, and was reassigned to homicide," Brass finished. "And Holly Gribbs lost her life."

Cecilia had been quietly taking mouthfuls of her pasta, chewing thoughtfully, while the others had related the tragic story of the young CSI. She didn't know what she could say that wouldn't sound either trite or placating. They were all human, and people did make mistakes, and Holly had some responsibility for her own safety, but to say so would seem to undermine the enormity of the loss.

Cecilia dabbed her lips with her napkin. "I'm so sorry," she said at length. She could feel the rawness of their pain, underneath their words. She had never considered before that working in the field as a forensic scientist would have inherent dangers. And she doubted that the death of a CSI working on a case, was a common occurence. Cecilia didn't believe that any of them could have reasonably anticipated what had happened to Holly Gribbs, at a seemingly innocuous break and enter scene, where the apartment had already been secured by a uniformed officer, who had remained nearby.

There had been errors in judgement, lapses in protocol, but Cecilia didn't see that there had been gross negligence or culpability for the young woman's murder. The only one guilty of Holly Gribb's death, was the man who had pulled the trigger. She wasn't sure how to communicate that though, and though words were normally her forte, they failed her now.

"There was an investigation, of course," Gil was saying. "Into the situation, and into Warrick. To avoid the appearance of impropriety I called Sara in. She was with the CSI unit in San Francisco. I'd worked with her in the past. Trusted her honesty and discretion." He paused for a moment, thinking of Sara. "At the end of his suspension, Warrick was reinstated as a CSI. The incident went on his file. We were short a field agent, of course, after losing Holly. Sara decided to stay in Vegas."

And Grissom had been pleased at her decision to accept his permanent job offer. Was still glad that she was part of his team. Only...things were so complicated with Sara. He thought now of the cold, distant way she had behaved towards him last night. Gil had thought everything had been going well between them, and he didn't know what he had done to precipitate her change of attitude. But Sara had looked at him as though he were something she would scrape off the bottom of her shoe. He didn't know what was wrong. And even if he had...Gil wasn't sure he would have been able to fix it.

Cecilia thought it was interesting to learn what had brought Sara Sidle to Las Vegas. Even though the young woman had had to investigate Warrick Brown in a professional capacity, there were no residual bad feelings between them. Of course, it had been a few years since the incident with Holly Gribbs had occured. As well, whatever negativity had been between Jim and Warrick had dissipated in the intervening span of time. She had not noticed anything but professional courtesy and respect, and even genuine affection, between the two men.

Now that that difficult background had been shared, they all felt as though they could move forward. Brass had been glad to see that there had been only an empathetic sympathy, no disapproval in Cecilia's eyes as they had told her Holly's story. He had known that he risked any respect he might have banked with the writer, but it had been important to him to have this aspect of his past out in the open. None of them had delved too deeply into Rick's portion of the story. It wasn't important to the understanding of what had occured, not really, and Brass figured that it was Brown's story to tell, if he should ever choose to.

Cecilia knew that even though the story of Holly Gribbs was high interest and that a fictional version would enhance any potential plot lines for her book, that she could never use it in that way. That the three of them had trusted her enough to share the story, was important to her. "Thank you, for telling me all of that," she remarked softly.

They resumed eating, and she glanced over at Jim Brass. The detective looked up at her for a moment, searchingly, a tension pulling his bushy brows together. Cecilia felt her pulse quicken as she held the gaze. He seemed satisfied by whatever he saw reflected in her dark eyes. When Gil spoke to him, and Brass looked away, Cecilia remembered to draw a breath again.


	18. Chapter 18

_Well, it's good to know that long chapters aren't a problem then, lol. I noticed that most postings on the board were generally shorter and thought that perhaps people might prefer that. Thanks for continuing to read and review. I enjoyed this latest chapter. I hope that you do too. Cathy._

At some point during dinner, talented fingers had touched the ebony and ivory keys of the piano board, and began to elicit soft, familiar strains that floated around the room, enveloping the diners in the warmth and comfort of old favourites. The tall, slender pianist, with salt and pepper hair, sat on the bench, his eyes closed in concentration, his fingers dancing lightly, a soft smile on his face as he gave voice to his gleaming black instrument. Cecilia recognized many of the easy-listening tunes from the last few decades. There was a lot of Elton John and Neil Diamond, two of her personal favourites. The music was accompanied on occasion by the musician's pleasant, slightly gravelly voice.

By the time the four at the table had finished their desserts, there were several people on the wooden dance floor. Catherine polished off yet another vodka and orange juice. She was tapping the shortened, white tips of her nails on the table's lacquered surface. From time to time she would gently lift her shoulders in synchrony with the beat and her strawberry blonde head would sway.

When another of Neil Diamond's songs began, and the musician began to sing, Catherine ceased tapping, stopped moving, and listened closely for a few seconds. "Gil, come dance with me," she said suddenly, her blue eyes bright in the pale oval of her face.

Gil shook his head. "You know I don't dance, Cath," he told her firmly.

"Yeah but it's a sign," she insisted. "Do you know what song this is?" Grissom shook his head again. "Listen," she instructed.

The deep voice sang. _"Holly holy eyes. Dream of only you, where I am, what I am, what I believe in. Holly holy."_

"For Holly," Catherine said softly. The young CSI had been at the fore of Catherine's mind since Brass had begun the story for Cecilia. Mellowed now by the liquor, and uninhibited, she wanted to dance through her feelings and release them. Catherine could see the unrelenting _no_ that had settled over Gil's features. In truth she had never seen him dance before. Blue eyes turned to the detective. "Jim?" she asked hopefully.

Brass shrugged his shoulders. He could see how much it meant to Catherine. "Yeah, sure," he agreed. "I'm no Fred Astaire, but I'll shuffle a little shoe leather with you." Rising, he took her hand and lead her towards the dance floor. They moved away, Jim with his unique, ambling gait, and Catherine with her light-as-air grace.

Cecilia watched them go, with a mixture of envy and anticipation. If Jim danced with Catherine, perhaps he might also share a dance with her. And Cecilia had accepted that she would like very much to be held close in his arms. She wanted to get to know Jim Brass better. She wanted to see more of the generous and compassionate nature that she knew was just beneath an often cynical surface.

"I love Neil Diamond," Cecilia began conversationally, smiling at Gil. "I've been lucky enough to see him in concert twice. What kind of music do you enjoy?"

Gil smiled back. "Classical, mostly." He had quite a library of CDs at home, some of the most beautiful music that man had ever created, he believed. It was the one form of artistic expression that he truly appreciated. His mother had arranged for him to take piano lessons when he was a young boy. Even though she was deaf, and couldn't hear the tunes he worked at, she used to sit beside him on the bench while he practiced. She would place her hands on the side of the upright, feeling the vibrations as he picked out the notes. Smiling her encouragement and nodding her pleasure, while he would strive to perfect his skill. Though Gil had become proficient enough, he had accepted early on that he didn't have the talent to ever perform professionally. But he had always enjoyed listening to the creations of the masters as brought to life by those who were truly gifted musically.

Gil looked towards the dance floor, where he could pick out the forms of his friends. It wasn't that he didn't _want_ to dance. There were often times when he thought how enjoyable it looked, and when he considered just getting up and giving it a try. But he knew that he lacked the co-ordination for it, and he was slightly conscious of his bow-leggedness. And there was something so intimate about dancing. A physical closeness that often seemed to encourage an emotional closeness. And something inside of him rebelled at the idea.

Gil remembered one of the first times he had been out together with whole team, at one of the clubs. Sara had been dancing with Nick and Warrick in turn, gyrating to the fast beat of the current popular favourites. She had returned to their table to sip her drink, leaving Nick with a young red-head who had been flirting with Stokes all night, and leaving Catherine and Warrick together. There had been a slight sheen on her face and neck down to the deep V of her form-fitting red shirt, evidence of her exertions. Her features had been open and unguarded for a change, her dark eyes sparkling, her lips curled at the corners.

She had looked beautiful, the red vivacious against her skin and her dark hair. Her long legs were clad in tight, black leather, and it was the first time Gil had seen her in heels. Sara had looked _happy._ And her smile had elicted from him a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure. _"Come on, Grissom," _she had encouraged, bestowing one of her trademark, gap-toothed grins. _"Dance with me." _She had leaned towards him expectantly.

_"I don't dance, Sara," _he'd answered truthfully while the air around them reverberated with the heavy bass beat.

Sara had appeared bemused. _"A slow one then. Everyone can slow dance," _she had said matter-of-factly. There had been a glow in the dark eyes as they had searched his face, seeming to try to get past his carefully erected fences. His sudden feeling of vulnerability had been disconcerting. When Sara had reached to lay one slender hand atop his, Gil had felt the heat in her touch, and had jerked his own away as though fearing a physical burn.

She flinched as though she'd been struck. The smile had frozen on her lips, then drooped, while Sara pressed her lips tightly together. A dark veil stole the light from her eyes. Her features pinched for a moment, then tightened. When the smile returned, it was no longer a thing of beauty and light, but crooked and sardonic. _"I'm sorry," _she bit out. Then she'd snatched at her drink, and turned abruptly, taking long strides towards the bar, leaving him alone at the table. Gil had wanted to say something to make amends, had considered getting up and following her, but in the end he had remained where he was. It was better that way. For both of them.

Cecilia watched Grissom, and though he was looking towards the dance floor, his eyes were unfocused, and she knew that whatever he was thinking, he was no longer next to her, but in some private musing. Finally, he gave a sigh, and shifted his blue eyes towards her. "So how are you enjoying Las Vegas?" he inquired. "And how is the research going? Is it as helpful for your new novel as you had hoped?"

Cecilia suspected that the questions were more to get her talking about something that would distract Gil from his thoughts, than out of genuine interest, although he did listen attentively and participate in the conversation. She didn't mind speaking about her experiences so far, and helping to take his mind off of whatever had brought that faraway look to his handsome features. It helped Cecilia to channel her own thoughts as well.

On the dance floor, the song had ended and another one took its place. Catherine showed no desire to go back to the table yet, so Jim continued to move slowly, one hand on her shoulder, another at her tiny waist. She hadn't spoken during the first song, content to just settle her head on his shoulder. "Do you think she'll be okay, Jim?" Catherine asked softly now. "Carly Palmateer?"

They had gone together to Lisa Palmateer's apartment early that morning to inform her of Michael Strickland's suicide. Dr. Robbins had confirmed the cause of death as blood loss following self-inflicted wounds with a sharp object. The CSIs had found the sliver of razor, cemented with super glue into the end of a comb which had only Strickland's prints. Sara and Nick had concluded that there was no foul play, and that Strickland had been alone in his cell after lights out. Other inmates confirmed that no one had entered or exited Strickland's cell. There would be no further investigation.

In the immediate hours after learning that Strickland had taken his own life, Brass had wondered how much the man's actions had had to do with the words the detective had spoken to him that night. Had the scene that Brass's words painted for the perp been so horrifically motivating that Strickland would rather die by his own hand than endure the treatment that Brass had predicted would await him in a maximum security prison, surrounded by hardened cons who had little tolerance for the sexual abusers of children? And if that incident had been the singular prompt behind Strickland's suicide, did that make the detective responsible for the other man's death?

Brass had come to realize that even if it did, he would shoulder that responsibility without any accompanying guilt. Strickland was a monster, and the kind of monster that would prey on an innocent child was beyond rehabilitation. Beyond redemption. And while a life behind bars would have meant a continuous purgatory for his crime, death was a pretty satisfying conclusion for the pain and terror he had inflicted on that little girl. And the avoidance of a trial was better for the child. If Jim Brass had had a hand in that...he could live with it, without regrets.

Lisa Palmateer had been groggy when she had opened the door, obviously roused from sleep. Brass had regretted waking the woman, but they felt it was important to inform her personally about what had occured. Before she turned on the t.v. and it jumped out at her from the morning news. She had allowed the detective and the criminalist into the apartment, which smelled heavily of stale cigarette smoke and deep-fryer oil. Carly had been curled up on a worn, chintz sofa, asleep, looking even younger in repose. Lisa Palmateer had explained that Carly hadn't been sleeping much and that any rest she got was a blessing, so she would appreciate it if the pair could keep their voices down.

After a brief investigation CPS had returned the younger child, Jenna, to the mother's care. There was nothing to suggest any kind of continuous abuse. The girls' basic needs were cared for. Neighbours and friends indicated that Lisa Palmateer was a good mother who loved her children. Her relationship with Michael Strickland had been a grievous mistake and poor character judgement, but with him out of the picture, and charges being pressed, there was nothing to indicate that the girls would be better off in foster care.

Lisa Palmateer had taken the news of Strickland's death unemotionally. She had stared at her daughter, crossing her arms over her ample chest, and whatever she had been thinking, she gave no indication to Catherine and Jim. At length she had turned to them. "I guess the bastard did us a favour by offing himself," she had commented philosophically. "Thanks for coming out here to tell me. I'll tell the kids when they wake up." Then she had seen them to the door.

"I don't know," Brass answered Catherine now. "I hope so. She'll continue to get therapy. The mom seems committed to her." He didn't know what to say. He wanted to ease Catherine's worry, but he didn't want to be falsely optimistic. The Palmateers had a long, hard road ahead of them. And a lot of it would depend on Carly's individual resiliency. Some people were real fighters who never let life get the best of them. He hoped that that would be the case here. One thing he knew was that with the mom's support, that made a huge difference in the child's recovery.

Something Brass had learned over the years was that you couldn't underestimate how much of an impact a parent had in a child's life. He felt the familiar pang as he thought about Ellie. About all of the ways that he had let her down over the years. The excuses he had made to her, and to himself. Never realizing how important his prescence would have been to a young girl's life in those formulative years. Never recognizing the raw need even when Ellie had tried to express it in the best way a child knew how. Not understanding until too late that it wasn't enough to feel love, or even express love, you had to _show_ it consistently and undeniably. Jim swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.

"Okay," Catherine said determinedly, tilting her head back to look at him, "I'm getting way too maudlin. We're supposed to be out tonight to put all that stuff behind us." She smiled at him. "Thanks for the dance, Jim. Dances, I guess. I feel better." The second song was drawing to an end.

He smiled back at her. "My pleasure."

"You're a good guy, Captain," Catherine continued, her tongue loosened by the alcohol. "And I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who thinks so." Catherine glanced towards their table.

Brass was grateful for the dimmed lighting so that Catherine wouldn't see the blush on his cheeks. He didn't know how to counter what the blonde was suggesting. Wanted, hopefully, to believe that she might be right. Didn't want to accept it too readily though, in case she was wrong. And realized that there was a big difference between being a 'good guy' and being the object of someone's interest.

"Tell her the New Jersey story," Catherine prompted.

"She won't want to hear that," he chuckled self-consciously.

"I think she does," Catherine insisted. "I was going to tell her. Started to tell her. But it's better coming from you."

Brass was quiet, contemplating the two women discussing him. Feeling self-conscious yet flattered at the same time. The dance had ended, and he took Catherine's elbow, escorting her back to their seats. "We'll see," was the most he would allow.

Catherine had thrown off her temporary melancholy by the time they were seated again. She brought the conversation to the topic of some of the celebrities that she had worked with. Some who were Las Vegas icons. Others who were in the city short-term, performing, involved in a sporting event, or at an official government function, or perhaps just vacationing among the droves who came to the city seeking glamour and glitz and a chance to get rich quick.

She deliberately avoided the sad stories. The famous actor who had murdered two people in his hotel bed. The pro basketball star whose young son who had been kidnapped for ransom, and accidentally killed in the process. Following her lead, Brass and Grissom added their own tales and experiences, keeping to that which was light-hearted and humourous.

Their cheque came, and Grissom took it, waving off the other three, and saying that the evening was on him, accepting their expressions of gratitude.

Eventually, Catherine glanced at her watch, and suprised to see that it was past midnight, pushed her chair back from the table. "This has been fun. But I have to get home. Lindsey has a swim meet tomorrow morning, so I have to be up early." She smiled to herself at the mention of her daughter. "You ready Gil, or shall I take a cab?"

Grissom nodded. "I'm ready."

Catherine stood, coming around the table to stand between Cecilia and Brass. "Thanks, guys, this was fun. And I needed it." Impulsively, she bent to give Cecilia a quick hug, then turned and kissed the detective on the cheek. "Remember to tell her about New Jersey," Catherine whispered into his ear.

Brass laughed lightly, and patted her back. "Good luck to Lindsey tomorrow. And thanks, Catherine, this was a good idea."

"Good night," Gil directed to both Cecilia and Brass. Then he and Catherine were gone.

Cecilia wasn't sure if she should make a move to leave now too. The fact was that she didn't want to go anywhere at all. She waited expectently for the detective to announce that he should be calling it a night. Instead, he asked Catherine if she would like another drink. She said that coffee would be wonderful, so Brass signaled their waiter and ordered coffee for her, and another whiskey for himself.

Jim had been worried that the moment Catherine and Gil got up to leave, that Cecilia would want to go too. When she remained seated, showing no signs of being about to bolt from the restaurant, he had suggested another drink and been pleased when she had seemed willing to stay. When his drink arrived, he took a deep swallow, and then turned his chair slightly so that he could face the writer better.

"So we never did ask you why you became a writer," Brass began, raising a bushy brow curiously.

"Well, I always loved to write," Cecilia told him. "I went to college to major in English. My parents are very practical and suggested that I go into teaching, so that I'd have a guaranteed income." She smiled fondly at the memory. "So I did. I really enjoyed it, too, and it's been fun over the years, working with the students, a different class each year, watching their progress, seeing the interest and talent that some display. I guess with no real incentive to pursue a writing career, I put that dream on the back burner."

She added cream to her coffee, stirring it slowly. "Eventually, it was something that became important to me again. I wrote my first novel. Submitted it to a few publishers directly, and also to a few agents. Received a lot of rejection letters, and was also just plain ignored a lot." She winced at the recollection, shrugging her shoulders. "Finally Sally contacted me. She thought my book had promise. Made some suggestions for re-writes. Agreed to represent me. We worked out terms. I listened to her ideas and rewrote the novel. She got me a publishing contract three months after I had resubmitted it."

"I bet that was exciting," Brass grinned.

"Oh yes," she laughed. "I began devoting more time to my writing. Became more self-critical of my work. I've been lucky to have Sally's years of experience and her innate talent for discerning what publishers are looking for. After my last book, _Winning Ticket_, I finally felt that I was financially stable enough to really go for it. To be a real novelist, and to give up my safety net of teaching. It was hard to do. But I'm glad that I did it." Cecilia smiled shyly.

"And now you're writing a book about forensics," he commented. "Has your experience with the CSIs been helpful so far?"

For a few minutes Cecilia repeated what she had shared with Grissom earlier, that it had been wonderful so far, and that she appreciated the unique opportunity that had been afforded her. "I'll have to thank all of you in the acknowledgements."

"So are we going to be able to recognize any of the characters?" Brass asked her with a grin.

Cecilia shook her head. "I had the characters all fleshed out beforehand, for the most part. It's more the _feel_ of things that I was looking for. An understanding of what it means to be a criminalist, of how the job affects someone as a person. That sort of thing." She paused for a moment, colouring slightly. "That sounds kind of presumptuous. I don't mean to say that in the short span of several weeks I understand what any of you go through, or what it's really like," Cecilia amended.

Brass smiled his understanding. "I wonder what it seems like, from the outside looking in," he mused consideringly.

"It's fascinating," Cecilia told him, though she knew the question had been more rhetorical. "I have so much respect and admiration for the jobs that you're doing. All of you."

As Brass's dark eyes held hers, he knew that she wasn't just saying that because she thought it was expected. He had observed her interacting with the CSIs. Had listened to her questions and her comments. Had seen her appreciation. He had witnessed first hand that she was also very observant about things. He grinned.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"I'm sorry," Jim said. "I was just thinking that if you hadn't been a writer, you would have made a great detective. You're very observant."

Cecilia paused thoughtfully. "I suppose there are many ways that detectives and novelists are similar," she admitted. "We both make a business of studying people. Trying to figure out what motivates them. Attempting to understand human nature." She stared at him across the corner of the table, into the dark appraising eyes that had the power to cause her heartrate to accelerate. She was acutely aware of how close he was. Of the fact that it was just the two of them. "Of course," she continued nervously, "Writers aren't as brave as police officers. We don't face any dangers, except for a bad critique." She gave a short laugh. "And we don't save lives. We create dream worlds and fantasies, and any of the ugliness we face, we control the extent of it, and we have the supreme knowledge that we'll always come out on top. Detectives face reality, and they impact on people's lives in a real, tangible and positive way. And when their shift is finished, they can't just turn off the computer, and forget all about what happened that day. Detectives have to live with it. They're real-life heroes."

Her voice had gotten softer and huskier. Cecilia looked at Jim, feeling the blood surging through her veins. Though her choice of words had been general...cops, detectives, they...in her head she had been substituting _you. _They were the things she had wanted to say to Jim the night of Michael Strickland's interrogation but hadn't been able to give voice to. Even now, she had to couch her admiration in the blanket of generalities. Not wanting to embarass him, or herself, by an interest she could no longer deny.

Brass smiled at her. "Thank you," he told Cecilia. "It's too bad everyone didn't feel as generously about cops as you do. It would make my job a heck of a lot easier." Their waiter had come to the table then and the detective tapped his finger on the side of his glass and gave a brief nod. Cecilia shook her head to indicate that she was fine. As the waiter retreated Brass continued. "I think that writers do something positive for people's lives too," he returned the compliment. "They make people think. And feel. Expose them to new ideas and different attitudes. And never underestimate the power of entertainment. The power to make people feel good. Look how much we pay the people that make us smile and laugh and feel good. I'd say our society values that pretty highly."

"Thank _you_," Cecilia returned.

A new drink was placed at Jim's elbow. He took it between both hands, swirling the amber liquid as he stared into it's depths. "So, I guess you're a career woman," Brass commented lightly. "Quite able and happy to take care of yourself. Too busy for marriage and children?" He raised his voice in a question. Brass knew that Cecilia had never been married. He had figured that she was like so many of the women he knew these days. The ones who enjoyed and valued their independence. When he saw the sadness fill her velvet-brown eyes, he could have kicked himself for the offhand assumption.

"No, not at all," Cecilia told him quietly, looking away, her dark eyes fixing on a distant point in the room. There was a sorrow underlying her voice that tugged at him. "I was engaged once. It didn't work out. It was a mutual decision, and I'm not pining for Andy at all. We had different ideas of what we wanted from life. Different priorities. He wanted a career woman. And after we'd already made plans to marry, he decided that he didn't want children."

A shadow crossed her tanned features. "I guess I'm more old school. I always thought that being a wife and mother was the most wonderful role I could possibly play. I was realistic enough to know that in today's world it was important to have an education, and a career to fall back on should it be necessary. But ultimately, what I wanted was to be at home. To raise a family." Cecilia looked at him again. "I've always been more June Cleaver than Murphy Brown," she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh.

Brass was at a loss for words, wishing he could take back his assessment. There was a sorrow here, a raw wound that he hadn't meant to open.

"I've come to accept that that might not be my purpose in life," Cecilia said, trying to inject vitality back into her voice. Trying to bury the old pain and the regrets. "So," she said, "how about you? Do you have children?"

It was inevitable, really, that the conversation would go there, Jim knew. Even if he hadn't initiated the topic tonight. It was one of the first things people wanted to know when they were getting acquainted with one another. _Are you married? Do you have children? _He cleared his throat. "One daughter. Ellie." Brass half rose in his chair, reaching to extract his wallet, and moving his fingertips through a small pocket, until he had withdrawn a small photograph. He offered it to Cecilia.

Cecilia took the picture. It was a standard school photo, she recognized. The background a sponged dark blue. She looked down at the delicate featured blonde girl. Ellie appeared to be about thirteen or fourteen, Cecilia guessed. The girl had dark eyes, like Jim's. The fair hair must have come from her mother. She had a slightly petulant look on her face, one that Cecilia, having taught teenagers for years, was familiar with. Ellie Brass was a beautiful girl. "She's lovely, Jim," Cecilia told him, and her envious heart ached that she had no photo of her own to produce.

"That was taken in eighth grade," Jim was saying now, reaching to take the photo back. He looked down at it for a moment. "Ellie was thriteen then. She's nineteen now." He knew what the next question would be, whether Cecilia verbalized it or not. Did he have a more recent photo? If he didn't, why not?

Brass looked up at the writer, knowing that she was too polite to press him for details. "Ellie's mom and I divorced when Ellie was quite young. Nancy and I never should have gotten married. We weren't compatible at all. The marriage was in trouble, and had been for a long time, when Ellie was born. We tried to hold things together, for Ellie's sake." He paused, shaking his head. "Not really. That's what we told one another though. And ourselves. That we were trying. But the committment wasn't there. Nancy and I both knew it was just a matter of time. Each waiting for the other to have the guts to end it, so we wouldn't have to live with the guilt of being the one to break up the family." His thin smile was bitter at the admission.

"In the end, it was Nancy who had the courage to call it quits. I came home and found my suitcases by the front door. Ellie was at my mother-in-law's. I stayed in Jersey for a couple of years. Told myself that I could still be a good dad. Except it was nothing more than lip service."

Cecilia saw the pain that etched his craggy features. While she believed Jim Brass to be a man of honesty and integrity, she was still surprised that he made no attempt to gloss over his past, or to portray himself in a more positive light. Obviously whatever his failings had been, the detective had accepted them, and was still paying for them.

"I started spending less and less time with Ellie. Making excuses for it. Blaming the job. There was some anger at Nancy for our failed relationship, and I guess I transfered some of that pain to Ellie. I was having a hard time professionally too, and it was just an overall dark time." Brass sighed deeply, watching Cecilia. _So much for the real-life hero impacting on people's lives in a positive way, _he thought. "I let Ellie down. I wasn't there when she needed me. I didn't put down a good foundation for a father-daughter relationship. And then when I made the move to Vegas, we just grew further and further apart. Weeks would go by without even a phone call. Then months.

"Then one day she wasn't a little girl anymore, and I realized that we didn't know one another. Nancy had stopped sending letters and pictures. I still tossed a card in the mail on Ellie's birthday and Christmas, with a big cheque, proportionate to my feelings of guilt. When Ellie turned fifteen I got a frantic call from Nancy that our daughter was in trouble. Some stuff with the local police. I flew out there. Used some old contacts. She was a juvenile anyway, so it wasn't too hard to make it go away." He paused. "Nothing illegal. But because I was a cop, formerly Atlantic City PD, the decisions that might well have been made anyways, went a little quicker and smoother."

Brass remembered going to pick Ellie up from the police station. Nancy had waited back at the house, expecting him to handle things. His ex had been a nervous wreck, her eyes red and swollen, her streaked blonde hair in disarray. He wasn't sure what kind of a reaction he had expected from his daughter. He guessed that he had figured she would be frightened. Upset. Part of him had hoped she would be happy to see her dad.

But Ellie had simply sat there, looking bored. She'd been wearing a ton of make-up, and tight, revealing clothing that had made him blush. There had been a brief flicker in her dark eyes. Surprise. She quickly quashed it and looked away, as though she hadn't seen him. He couldn't get over how much older she looked.

_"Ellie, honey, it's taken care of," _Brass had told her with a sympathetic smile. _"Let's go home."_

She had stood up then and the chilled smile that had formed on her pouty lips had sucked all the warmth from his bones. _"Gee...Dad..." _she had said with saccharine sweetness. _"You came all this way just to bail me out? That's just so...special." _She had rolled her dark eyes, getting louder with each word. _"What do you want? Tears of gratitude? Applause? A hero biscuit?" _She had laughed mockingly. _"I bet you were pissed when Mom called. Did I embarass you in front of your old buddies?"_

Jim had let her talk. Knowing that he deserved her rancour. Her raised voice echoed in the halls, and he knew that other cops had stopped to stare at this lovely little family reunion. He had reached for Ellie's shoulder then, thinking to give it a gentle squeeze, to pull her close for a quick hug, and a few murmured words of support. Ellie's eyes had narrowed to slits, and her nostrils had flared in distaste. Quick as a cat, she had knocked the offending hand from her shoulder, one of her long nails grazing his skin. Her delicate features had blazed with unbridled fury. Then she regained control, plastering that unaffected smile on her face once more. _"No worries. I've already got a ride." _A short pause. _"So nice to see you again though...Dad..." _And then Jim's teenage daughter had spit in his face.

He had stood there, stunned, wiping his face while Ellie had waltzed past him. Realizing with gut-wrenching clarity the toll that his inattentiveness had taken. He turned slowly and watched Ellie saunter up to a young punk waiting inside the station entrance. The kid was about eighteen. Black Doc Martens. Skin-tight black jeans. Tight black t-shirt. His youthfully handsome face below a shock of wavy, black hair wore that same bored expression that Ellie had perfected. He had looked at Brass as Ellie had slipped into his arms. The kid had winked at the detective, reaching behind Ellie to squeeze her buttocks, then bending to give her a sloppy kiss.

Brass had thought that he would have a coronary, or stroke out on the spot. His hands burned to encricle the young punk's neck and throttle him, but his feet seemed encased in cement. Then the pair had laughed tauntingly, and he had watched Ellie walk out of the station, and out of his life for good. Who the hell did he think he was, to come striding in after two years without so much as a phone call, wanting to assume the mantle of fatherhood? After a long talk with Nancy the next day, and an unfilled promise to be in touch soon, Jim had boarded an American Airlines flight back to Vegas, and foolishly given Ellie up again. Not recognizing at the time that when she pushed him away the hardest, and claimed to hate him the most, was the time that his daughter really needed him. It had been one more egregious error in a shameful history of them.

"Jim?" Cecilia prompted softly.

Brass wondered how long he had been lost in his reverie. "Sorry," he sighed. "Things didn't go well. Ellie was angry with me. And I don't blame her. She made it clear that though I might call myself her father, that she didn't feel I deserved the honour. And the hell of it is, she was right." Sorrow seemed to fuel the earth's gravity and to tug at the flesh of his face. "I love Ellie," Brass told Cecilia, his ragged voice conveying so much emotion in the three words. "But I lost her."

Cecilia felt the lonely grief that emanated from the detective in cold waves. Unthinkingly, she reached to place her hand over his. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

Jim took in the open empathy on Cecilia's face, and noted the shine of unshed tears in her dark eyes. She was a warm and compassionate woman. Non-judgemental. She felt things deeply. He sensed the support that flowed at the spot where their skin touched. Jim placed his other hand over Cecilia's, and gave it a gentle squeeze. Here was a woman who had longed for a child and might never have one. And who still felt for him despite his stupidity and lack of appreciation for the supreme privilege he had been granted.

Brass didn't usually talk about Ellie. To anyone. He rarely mentioned that he had a daughter, let alone spoke about their estrangement. And the detective never shared with anyone his culpability for that unfortunate circumstance. And yet it had seemed so natural to confide in Cecilia Laval. He tried to tell himself that it was just that the whiskey had loosened his tongue. But that wasn't accurate. The truth was that he felt comfortable with her. And he _wanted _to be totally honest with her. To have no secrets. To let her see him as the man that he really was. Jim sensed in Cecilia a goodness that appealed to his battered soul the way a cold drink of water would appeal to man who'd been stumbling through a dry, hot desert with an empty canteen.

Jim was reluctant to let Cecilia's hand go. His thumb gently stroked her soft skin. He stared down at their conjoined hands. He didn't know how to say the thoughts that were in his mind. And he was afraid of the feelings that churned inside him. Cecilia was only in Las Vegas for a short time. A few more months at the most. And then she would be gone. Back to Pennsylvania. Back to the life she had placed on hiatus. Busy with her new book. Forgetting all about Vegas. And him.

Cecilia's throat tightened when Jim's hand covered hers. Every nerve ending seemed vibrantly alive, and to hum with an electric current that threatened to overload her senses. When his thumb began to caress the back of her hand, Cecilia felt a warmth spread outward from her core.

"Can I get you anything else, Sir?" the solicitous voice broke in.

Jim withdrew his hand, and Cecilia moved hers. She placed it in her lap, savouring the warmth that her skin retained in the outline of his hold.

"One more whiskey," Brass said huskily. "Cecilia?"

She didn't really want anything, but she needed something to do, some pretense of normality, and sipping a coffee seemed close enough. "Coffee, please."

"And then the bill," the detective said quietly. The slight alcohol-induced fog that had shrouded him not long ago seemed to have diffused all of a sudden. Burnt off in the invisible flame that Cecilia's touch had ignited. Now that that connection had been broken, Jim felt it's loss keenly. He thought of asking Cecilia to dance, eager to re-establish it, then realized that at some point during the evening the musician had finished his allotted repertoire, and the dance floor had cleared.

Frustrated, Jim felt as though the moment was slipping away from him. In a very short time, whatever tentative and nebulous thread had begun to weave around them, would be lost. He could almost imagine a bell, high in a steeple, swinging back and forth, each resounding strike signaling that time was running out. Soon it would stop chiming and the magic enchantment would be at an end. Mentally Brass cursed the waiter for picking such an inopportune moment to reappear.

In the end, the words that came tumbling out of his mouth were not the more direct ones he had hoped to express. "Thank you, Cecilia. You're a good listener." Brass snapped his jaw shut is dismay. _A good listener? Christ was that the best he could do? An 80-year-old priest in a confessional was a 'good listener'._ What Jim had wanted to communicate was something far more flowery and definitive. Along the lines of, _'You look beautiful sitting there. Like an angel. Calm and serene. You are soft and sweet and have a gentle compassion and kindness that cuts through life's tsunami to offer peaceful sanctuary to a drowning man.I just want to gather you in my arms, and breathe the intoxicatingly original scent of you, and feel that you're firm and real and not just a figment of my desperate imagination, created from the depths of my dreams.'_

Now _that_ would have been good, Brass knew. That was the kind of flowery language that the guys in the afternoon soaps and on the big screen used, that was guaranteed to leave women swooning. That was the kind of thing a woman _wanted_ to hear. Feeling it was one thing though. Putting it into words was another altogether.

Cecilia smiled at the compliment anyways. "Thank you," she replied. Her dark eyes looked into his and Brass willed her to understand all that he had meant to encompass.

The waiter returned with their drinks and the bill. They finished them in comparitive silence. Neither sure how to proceed in the aftermath of Brass's emotionally heightened sharing. Both believing that the evening had come to its natural end, but neither ready to say good bye. Finally Brass took out his wallet, and glancing at the cheque for the scotch and the coffee he and the writer had shared after Catherine and Gil had left, he peeled out a couple of bills and tucked them beneath his empty glass. "I've got it," Brass said. "I'll walk you to your car," he suggested, trying to sound casual.

Cecilia knew that Jim had taken a taxi to the restaurant earlier that evening. "I'd be happy to give you a ride," she said, rising from her chair and reaching for her purse. "You mentioned before that you live not too far from my apartment?"

Brass considered the offer. His first instinct was to not want to put Cecilia to any trouble. His next thought was to remember that she had been late arriving this evening. Driving around the downtown streets lost was one thing at eight thirty. It was something totally different at this hour. It wasn't that Las Vegas was any more dangerous than any other city, or that evil lurked behind every corner. But Brass thought of the recent carjackings, and knew that a woman alone, lost after dark, would be easy prey. His gut constricted at the thought of something happening to her.

"Thanks," he agreed. Waiting for Cecilia to lead the way, Brass followed across the thickly carpeted floor of the restaurant outside into the inky night air.

After the air-conditioned coolness of the building's interior, Cecilia was surprised by the heat outdoors. Concrete, stucco and tarmac that during the day had soaked up the sun's molten energy, released it now hours later under the cover of dark. When they reached her rental car, Jim Brass gently took the keys from her hand, and unlocked the vehicle, holding the driver's side door open for her. She watched the way his dark eyes quickly scanned the area, immediately assessing their surroundings and alert to anything out of place. His training and years of experience were an inseperable part of who he was. Cecilia started the engine, then released the power locks, and Jim came around the car and slid into the seat next to hers.

Finding her way out of the city's core proved to be an easier task than navigating her way in, though Cecilia was grateful to have the company of someone that knew the streets intimately. She was aware of a tension in the car, a nervous energy as opposed to a negative strain. Her hand on the wheel seemed to bear an invisible imprint of the detective's. She could still feel where their skin had touched. Cecilia wanted to say something mildly flirtatious, something to indicate that further attention was not unwanted. But it had been too long since she'd last played this game, and her skills were rusty. She wasn't much of a femme fatale to begin with.

When they did speak it was of inconsequential and mundane things. Brass would point out the sights. Make a comment or two about the history of the city. Cecilia was happy to just listen to the deep tones of his voice. When they were nearing the area of her apartment, Jim surprised her with a request.

"Listen, I'd feel a lot better if you'd just drive to your place. My apartment isn't far from there, and I can just walk the rest of the way home. It's a nice night and a little fresh air before I turn in will do me good."

Cecilia frowned. Wondering if for some reason the detective didn't want her to know where he lived. "Why?" she asked simply.

Brass sighed deeply. "Okay, I don't mean this to sound chauvanistic, but I know it will. And I'll admit I'm an old-fashioned guy, so bear with me." He turned his head towards her, hoping to project his sincerity. "The thing of it is, I'm just not comfortable with you dropping me off, then going home alone. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of doing that and getting back in one piece." Brass gave a wry grin. "But you're new to the city. And since I'm a cop I tend to think about the bad elements a lot. Not to scare you, but there have been a few carjackings lately. And I just don't like the idea of a woman alone in an unfamiliar area after dark. I know you must come and go on your own all of the time, but that's different because one, I don't know about it, and two, it's not because of me. I just feel responsible and I'll worry. So there it is." He braced himself for any indignation that might follow.

_He was worried about her. _Cecilia felt far from indignant. She felt protected. She didn't believe that Jim thought she was some ninny who was incapable of doing anything without a man to watch over her. She believed that he was genuinely concerned. Because it was part of nature. And...perhaps...because her safety mattered to him as more than an abstract? "All right," she told him quietly. "Thank you."

Brass had been ready to counter any arguments. He was thrown off by Cecilia's genial acceptance of the plan. Had prepared himself for an _'I am woman, hear me roar!'_ speech. Instead, she had seemed to understand his rationale and to accept it graciously. He was surprised into silence.

Soon Cecilia was pulling into the parking lot of her apartment. "Are you sure you don't want to call a cab from here?" she asked, turning off the headlights and shutting down the engine.

"Naw, no need," Brass replied. "Like I said, the walk will be good for me." He got out of the car and went around to her door, but Cecilia was already getting out of the vehicle. Jim stood beside her next to the driver's side door. Knowing that this was good night. Feeling every nerve ending tingle with uncertainty.

If this had been a date, or had even remotely resembled one, Jim knew that he would have tried to kiss Cecilia good night. But it wasn't. He hadn't invited her out, Catherine had arranged for all of them to get together. Cecilia hadn't agreed to an evening in just his company, but had been part of a group. Her offer of a ride might have simply been a polite thing, in exchange for the ride he had given her one day. Their ending up here together at this point, alone, was just a matter of coincidence. He had no right to read anything more into it, or to put her on the spot or turn this into a romantic interlude.

Cecilia was intensely aware of how close the detective was standing. In the blue haze of the parking lot lights, she could see the scattered dark chest hairs at the opening of his shirt. She could smell his cologne and the slightly bitter remnants of the alcohol on his breath. She envisioned leaning in towards him, tilting her head and offering her lips. Could almost feel the return pressure of his.

For a moment Cecilia thought of asking Jim if he would like to come in for a drink or a coffee. That was such a bad cliche though. And that was the way two people might take a promising date to the next level. Only this wasn't a date.

"I hope you don't have too far to go," she said, grasping for something to focus on.

"Not really," he assured her. "And even though I'm not carrying tonight, I can handle myself." Brass smiled at her. "Even if I didn't have the added benefit of police training. When you're a boy who grows up with a last name like Brass, you take a lot of teasing, and you learn to use your fists," he commented philosophically. He could see by Cecilia's blank expression that she wasn't making the connection. "It was the same way for my brother Peter. We heard it all. Over and over again from every punk and bully who thought he was bigger and tougher and had something to prove. You know. _Brass_ monkey. Someone always wanted a demonstration of _Brass_ knuckles. _Brass_ b..." He stopped himself in time. "Well, you can imagine, I'm sure." He laughed lightly. "Anyhow, the moral of the story is that I can take care of myself pretty well. Even for an old guy." He winked at her.

Cecilia nodded. Jim Brass wasn't a big man, but she had the sense that he could indeed take care of himself if the need arose. Her stomache fluttered though at the thought of that being necessary. "All right," she said softly. Then, "It was a nice evening."

It was his turn to nod. "I had a good time," Brass agreed. He leaned towards Cecilia then, and spoke softly near her ear. "Good night." His cheek brushed hers, and for a moment his right temple pressed against her left.

Disappointment flared when the contact was broken and Brass had pulled back. There was nothing more for Cecilia to do. She wished him a good night, and headed through the courtyard, then up the stairs to the second level. As she walked under the second storey veranda to her apartment door, she imagined his eyes on her back. She paused after unlocking the door, and turned around to look down at the lot. Brass was still standing there, leaning against the car, waiting for her to go inside. Cecilia wanted to call down to Jim, to ask him if wanted to come in for a minute, to offer him a drink, cheesy or not, something to prolong the evening and to confirm whether or not the longing that sang in her veins was at all requited.

But she was afraid that if he said no, if he turned down her offer, it would break her heart and turn what had been a wonderful evening into something sad and lonely. She looked at him across the dark expanse. His features were shadowed. And then Cecilia stepped inside the apartment and closed and bolted the door behind her.

Jim stood there for a few moments after she had gone inside. Imagining following Cecilia upstairs. Knocking on her door. Stepping inside without a word when it swung inward. Taking her lovely face between his hands, and claiming lips of soft claret. Her perfume still filled his nostrils, and added an element of realism to the fantasy. Eventually, he pulled his eyes away from the unit. Forced his feet to shuffle off to the avenue and to begin the journey home. Back to the dark and empty apartment where Brass knew he would toss and turn long into the night.


	19. Chapter 19

"Oh you've got to be kidding me," Sara mocked, leaning across the breakroom table. With her index finger she pushed the paperback up in Catherine's hands. "Cecilia's novel? What...are you pulling an Ecklie? Trying to get some brownie points?" Her laughter was derisive.

Catherine dog-earred the page and set the book on the table, looking at the other woman from beneath a raised brow. "I was curious. You have some problem with that?" She had known Sara long enough to be able to tell that something was bothering her. The brunette was on edge and probably combatative.

At the far end of the table, Nick Stokes shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He glanced at the door wondering if he could nonchalantly saunter out before the fireworks began. Sara had been miserable for the past several nights. Something was bugging her, though Nick didn't know what. His guess would have been Grissom. But maybe Sara had some beef with Catherine. It was just as likely though that Catherine might simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and not the main objective. Collateral damage, as it were.

"Heck no, read what you want," Sara encouraged condescendingly. "I'm sure your interest is genuine and not part of another get-ahead-quick scheme." She popped the tab on her diet Coke with a sharp snap.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Catherine asked with a chuckle, leaning forward in the chair, the narrowing of her blue eyes suggesting that she wasn't quite as calm as she appeared.

"Everything's an opportunity. Hey, I'm not knocking it. That's just the way some people operate. It works for Ecklie. Why shouldn't it work for you too?" Sara shrugged her thin shoulders. "Express an interest, butter up the writer, she gets all touched and flattered and puts in a good word with the mayor. It's not what you know, but who you know, right?" Sara's too bright smile stretched her cheeks.

"Uh, yeah, I'm reading Cecilia's book because it's going to advance my career." Catherine just laughed and shook her head. She wasn't going to let whatever was eating Sara become her problem by extension. Catherine picked up the novel again, and went back to reading.

"So what's it about?" Sara asked.

Catherine answered without raising her head. "If you really want to know, you can find it at Barnes and Noble. Or the library."

_"Winning Ticket," _Sara read aloud. "Is it about a lottery? Or just someone who got lucky? Who maybe works her way up from a checkered past and gets to jet around as the arm candy of a rich older man?" Sara crossed her arms over her chest and smirked.

The references to both her past as a dancer and her friendship with Sam Braun were not lost on Catherine. Sara was definitely spoiling for a fight. Catherine had no idea what she had done to antagonize Sara, or what imagined slight had brought on this latest attempt at evisceration. Ever since Sara Sidle had come to the Vegas lab their relationship had been a series of attempts at friendship interspersed with lapses of open animosity.

Catherine simply didn't understand the other woman. The blonde woman had made overtures. Tried to make Sara feel welcome, and to feel part of the team. She sensed that the brunette's gruff exterior hid a wounded heart. And that beneath her iron grip on her appearance of being professional and unaffected, Sara had a gentle soul that felt keenly the pain and misery of those she came into contact with. From the beginning though, Sara had seemed resentful of Catherine. At first Catherine had thought it might be because of her status as the highest ranking CSI on the team. Then over time, she had thought it might have something to do with her friendship with Gil.

Sometimes, something would happen that would allow the two women to connect. When Sara had found out that Hank, the paramedic she was dating, had a serious and steady girlfriend that he had never bothered to mention to Sara, Catherine had invited her out for a drink to talk and commiserate. Sara had seemed appreciative of the friendship and the sharing.

When Eddie had died, despite the problems that the two women had had during Sara's investigation of his death, the brunette had extended compassion and understanding to Catherine. She had offered to cover some of Catherine's shifts so that Catherine could spend more time with Lindsey. In the weeks following Eddie's funeral, pre-packaged, pre-cooked meals from an upscale supermarket would be delivered to Catherine's door at regular intervals. Sara was self-admittedly not a cook, but she arranged for her version of bringing over a casserole.

There were times when they would work a case together, and seem so in tune, that Catherine would feel certain that whatever had hung between them for so long, a barrier to their ever achieving true friendship, would finally be broken down by their working bond. And then something else would happen, and Sara would withdraw again, and the chasm between them would seem too wide to ever gulf.

"Hey, Catherine," Nick's genial drawl broke in. "I forgot to ask, how did Lindsey's team do at that swim meet on Sunday?" He leaned forward on his elbows, his broad dimpled smile offering just the distraction he had meant it to.

Catherine rejected Sara's bait, and concentrated instead on Nick. "They did real good. They came in second place. Lindsey swam really well, I was so proud of her. She's like a little fish. When they went up for their medals, I thought her smile would burst off her face. She was so excited."

"Good for her," Nick commented with pleasure. "I trust you took lots of pictures?"

"Oh yeah! I dropped my card off at Eckerd. They should be ready to pick up now, actually." Catherine responded. "Lindsey's started a scrapbook, and she can't wait to get the photos." The scrapbook had evolved out of the journal that the psychologist who had been seeing Lindsey after Eddie's death, had suggested the girl keep to record her private thoughts and feelings.

Sara sat there seething that Catherine had just brushed her off. She knew that Catherine had gone out to dinner with Grissom the other night. And that she had roped Brass and the novelist into going too. Just to give the appearance of it not being a date, Sara assumed. She recalled how she had asked Grissom to dinner before, mustering up her courage, risking hurt and rejection because she thought he was worth it, and because she had felt that on some level he cared about her too. But he had turned her down. Because supposedly it was taboo to even appear to be romantically involved in with a co-worker. Unless she was a beautiful strawberry blonde, brimming over with sex appeal, and confidence, who had an enviable knack for relating to others. _Then _it was okay, apparently, to take a chance and bend the rules.

"My sister does that scrapbook thing," Nick replied. "Made a nice album for our mom and dad for their 40th. They were really touched. Mom especially." Nick jutted his chin towards the book in Catherine's hand. "So I gotta ask...is it any good?" He grinned.

Catherine smiled. "Yeah, actually it is. The characterization is good. The plot is interesting. It's certainly well-written. It's kind of neat to know the person who wrote it. Gives a whole new insight into Cecilia, I think."

"That's working out okay then?" Nick wondered. "She seems nice enough. Knows when not to get in the way. Seems pretty smart too." It hadn't been as bad having the writer around as Nick had originally anticipated. Cecilia spent most of her time with Catherine, and Nick didn't really interact with the woman too often, but when he did it was far more painless than he had expected.

"It hasn't been a problem at all," Catherine told him. "I like her, actually."

Sara gave a sarcastic snort. "Is the breakroom wired or something?"

Catherine frowned at Sara in irritation. "Is that so hard to believe? You know there are good, decent, upbeat and positive people in the world, and sometimes the rest of us, who actually like people, make a connection with them," she admonished.

The implied criticism stung Sara. She knew that she was an introvert. Considered brooding and a loner, by her co-workers. Sara thought she heard the other woman's slight emphasis on _them. _She believed that Catherine was saying that people didn't connect with Sara. Because she was _not _upbeat and positive. Sara would laugh and joke around like the rest of them, at times. But even she was aware that that was the exception, not the rule.

"Some of us are too busy to go around being Mary Sunshine all of the time," Sara retorted. "Some of us actually have to get our hands dirty. To clean up someone else's crap. We can't just float through life oblivious to it's cruel realities. Churning out trite little novels. Insinuating ourselves where we aren't wanted. Having people treat us with kid gloves because we're friends with the boss's boss. Blowing in like a bad case of halitosis that people have to pretend they don't notice.

"You didn't want her hanging around any more than the rest of us do, and if Grissom didn't order you to babysit Cecilia, you wouldn't have the time of day for her," Sara accused. "She's like picking up a bug that you just have to let run it's course. And you know it. If you think you can use her to further your own ambitions, just like she's using us, then feel free. But cut the buddy-buddy crap, Cath, it's lame and you're not fooling anyone." Sara let the words pour out in a vitupritive stream.

Catherine just stared at Sara, agog at her bitterness towards Cecilia. It was like something out of a bad B-movie, to look up and see Cecilia standing in the open doorway. The pallor, the unnatural stiffness in her tall frame, and the wideness of her dark-eyed gaze, indicated that the writer had heard everything that Sara had just said.

"For Pete's sake, Sara..." Nick began, then his gentle drawl faded away as he caught the look of dismay on Catherine's face, and followed her line of sight to the door.

Cecilia felt the tremor pass through her as the mortification took hold. She had known that Sara had never really warmed to her, but the cruelty and venom in the younger woman's words shocked her. The implication that _none _of them wanted her here...that Catherine considered her a necessary evil and perhaps a professional stepping stone...caused the bile to rise in her gorge.

Sara saw the looks on Catherine's and Nick's faces, and interpreted them correctly. Guiltily she twisted in her chair to see the novelist standing there. Brass came up behind Cecilia then, a large manilla envelope in his hand and he halted in the doorway behind the writer.

"Evening, all," Brass said. "I was on afternoons and just going off shift, but wanted to get Gil to take a look at..." He halted the words, his head snapping up, his senses alert to the undertones in the room. He craned his neck, taking in Cecilia's obvious distress. Immediately, his free hand went to the small of her back, the gesture fueled by the sudden sympathy and protectiveness that her wounded expression elicited in him. His dark eyes narrowed and Brass stepped forward, his body a barrier between the writer and the three in the room, while his intense gaze scrutinized the CSIs.

"Cecilia, she didn't really mean it..." Catherine began desperately, her blue eyes shifting to Sara with disgust.

Sara pushed out of her chair, and keeping her head low, unable to look at the novelist, she squeezed past Brass, the left side of her body brushing against his hip and shoulder, as she escaped out into the hallway. Tears of frustration and self-loathing burned in the chocolate depths of her eyes. She heard Nick's voice behind her, saying something comforting to Cecilia. Then she heard another deep voice bark out her name.

"Sara!"

She slowed, and then halted. Turning towards that voice. Brass was striding down the hallway towards her. She looked for the sympathy she knew she would find in his eyes, and the concern that would be etched in his weathered features. Brass had a quiet way of understanding Sara. Of helping her to cast off her gloom and of making her feel better about things. He was her friend, and she could always count on him to reach out to her.

Only he didn't look like a gentle beacon in her current storm. Brass looked furious. "I don't know what your problem is," he said, his voice icily calm. "But keep it to yourself. I don't know what bitchy thing you said to Cecilia, but she didn't deserve it." His wide nostrils flared and his mouth was set in a grim line. "This isn't high school," Brass informed her contemptuously, "you're _supposed_ to be a professional. Not to mention you're representing the LVPD. Start acting like it!"

Sara was deflated by the detective's scorn. Irrationally, she felt betrayed by his taking sides against her with Cecilia. Even though Sara knew that she was in the wrong. She was hurt by his anger, even if it was justified. And she felt humilated to have lost Brass's respect. Additionally, she had seen the protective way he had responded to Cecilia. And knew that he had feelings for the writer. Sara felt as though everyone she cared about was drifting away from her, and that always when push came to shove, it was someone else who was prefered and valued abover her.

Brass didn't wait for her to say anything in her defense, or to explain that she would apologize to Cecilia before the night was out. He didn't ask her what was wrong, the way he always had in the past. He didn't try to understand, or to cheer her up. He had followed her only to berate her and to warn her off of Cecilia. Sara's mouth felt dry. Brass spun, his movements tight with his anger, and he stalked back down the hall to the breakroom, leaving Sara there. Alone. Dismissed.

Cecilia was leaning against the counter and bank of cupboards against the far wall, holding a cup of coffee, and looking more composed already, when Brass returned to the room. Catherine and Nick were standing nearby, trying to say the things that would make the writer feel better, and to reassure her and convince her that Sara hadn't meant what she'd said.

"It wasn't even about you," Catherine sighed. "It was me Sara had a problem with. She was just trying to needle me. I'm sorry that you got dragged into it. But please don't put any stock in anything Sara had to say." Catherine's smile was hopeful. Underneath, she was extremely irritated with Sara. The brunette's comments had really crossed the boundaries, and Catherine was tired of the other woman's moodiness.

Once she had had a chance to get over her immediate shock, Cecilia had decided not to give any credence to the mean-spirited things that Sara Sidle had said. Cecilia believed that Catherine was genuine, and that even if initially the team had resisted the idea of her being here, she felt that she had overcome that and proved herself in the past weeks. She sensed that the reactions that Nick and Catherine displayed, and their comments following Sara's abrupt departure, were sincere.

Brass stood awkwardly in the room. Cecilia seemed okay now. Whatever Sara had said to upset her, the writer was not letting it get the better of her. "Everything okay?" he asked hopefully.

Cecilia looked at Jim, reading the honest concern on his craggily handsome features. "Fine," she smiled. She hadn't seen him for a few days, not since she had left him outside her apartment on Saturday night. Cecilia had been thinking of him almost constantly though. Seeing him now she felt his pull acutely, the attraction just as strong as it had been the other night.

Catherine regarded Brass with interest. She had noted his protective attitude towards Cecilia, though she thought that the novelist might have missed it, overwhelmed as she had appeared by overhearing Sara's snide comments. The automatic way Brass had placed his body between Cecilia and the rest of them until he could determine what the threat was and where it came from. Physically interjecting himself into the situation. With that action, he had shown clearly how he felt about the novelist.

Even though she had sensed a connection between the two Catherine was still surprised by the strength of Brass's reaction. He had left the room to follow Sara, likely to try to calm her, and to try to determine what was wrong. But his main concern was clearly for Cecilia. Catherine could see it etched now in every line of his face.

"Well, I just stopped by to see Grissom about something," Brass remarked. "Have a good night." He waved the manilla envelope and left them.

He found Gil in the DNA lab, and waited until he was finished discussing something with Greg Sanders, then followed the other man back to his office. Taking the chair opposite, Brass tossed the envelope on the desk in front of the scientist. "I'd appreciate if you could look that report over for me, when you get the chance," he said.

Grissom brought the envelope closer, then lifted the flap and tilted it, sliding out the official looking sheets. He glanced at them for a minute. "These are the reports on Elliott Keeth's death?" he asked curiously.

Brass nodded. "Yeah. They faxed them over this afternoon. They've ruled it accidental. I just...I'd appreciate your expert opinion. See if there's anything...anything at all...that you think is unusual."

Brass had read the report with interest. The official cause of death was careless smoking. The arson invstigator had determined that the origin of the blaze had been the contact of the cigarette against the sofa. There were no accelerants detected. The coroner had found elevated levels of the prescription drug Dalmane, a sleeping pill, in Elliott's system. The normal dose would be thirty milligrams before retiring. Keeth had taken twice that amount. Additionally, he had mixed that with alcohol which potentiated the action of the drug. That would have resulted in severe sedation, lethargy and disorientation.

To add to the seriousness of the situation, Keeth's older style sofa contained polyurethane foam. The foam was highly flammable, and characterized by rapidly accelerated growth and spread of fire accompanied by heavy, acrid smoke that would cause immediate inhalation dangers.

Deep in the grip of a heavy drug and alcohol induced slumber, Keeth had been unable to rouse when the sofa, ignited by the ember of his cigarette, had begun to burn beneath him. Even the screeching warning of the smoke detector had not been sufficient to penetrate his haze.

A neighbour, passing in the hall, had heard the insistent blaring of the alarm, and banged on the door, with no response. She had called the fire department, and they had arrived at the scene quickly, but too late to save Elliott.

As a footnote for Brass, Detective Juarez of the Laughlin PD, indicated that he had spoken with Keeth's girlfriend, Dana Asmundsen. She confirmed that on a couple of different occasions Keeth had doubled his dose of the Dalmane, believing that it didn't always work as well, due to his larger than average size. Additionally, there had been an accident just a few weeks previously where Elliott had fallen asleep in a Lazyboy, with a lit cigarette, and burned a hole in the chair. Dana had expressed worry to friends that Keeth was going to set the whole apartment on fire one night. Tragically, it seemed that her prediction had come true.

Gil removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked across at the other man. Gil knew that Brass had had his suspicions that Denny Martens' hit-and-run had not been a random accident but a calculated murder, even though the detective hadn't shared them with him. He thought that Brass had given up on that when none of the evidence had indicated foul play, and when no possible motive had been unearthed. Now, clearly, the detective wasn't ready to accept that Elliott Keeth's death had been a tragic and unfortunate result of careless smoking, but was perhap something more sinister.

"You think the two deaths are related in some way?" Grissom queried.

Brass shrugged. "I can't shake this gut feeling that it's just a little too pat. Two guys that we used to work with dead within a month of one another." While the rational side of him knew that it really had been an accident, the part of him that relied on gut instinct, just couldn't let go of the idea that Keeth's death, coming so close on the heel of Martens', was not a coincidence. And if Elliott's death was suspicious...Brass believed that Denny's might be as well.

"_Coincidence is the word we use when we can't see the levers and the pulleys_," Grissom pulled from one of his mental files.

"Yeah, something like that," Brass agreed. "I guess I don't have to tell you to keep this on the QT?"

Gil nodded his silvered head. "Hit-and-run, when we can't find the suspect, is always open-ended, even if we close the case," he commented. "Because we can neither prove nor disprove intent. But arson is obviously intent. If we don't see any signs of arson, we have to accept that it was an accident." He flipped through a few pages, skimming them, then paused, regarding Brass over the top of the papers. "Arson is all but impossible to get away with," he told him. "There are always signs." Brass nodded to indicate that he understood that. "But humans are fallible and we might not always see them," Gil relented.

"Which is where you come in," Brass said. "A fresh pair of eyes. Someone who's tops in the field. If there's anything there...I know you'll find it. If not...then I put Keeth's memory to rest." Jim sighed. "Speaking of which, there's a memorial service day after tomorrow. They released the remains today, and the guys in Laughlin tell me Elliott's being cremated. But there's a small memorial service on Thursday. I think I'll go down."

"I'll be in Reno," Grissom explained, "at a conference. Catherine might want to go though."

"I'll mention it to her," Brass said, standing. He rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Well, it was a long day. I'm going to head home and hit the sack. Thanks for this, Gil." Brass paused, frowning. "Is something bugging Sara, do you know?"

Grissom looked at him blankly.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Brass stated wryly. "For a smart guy you can be pretty clueless sometimes." He never understood why Gil continued to deny his feelings for Sara Sidle. It was clear that she was crazy about the supervisor. But Grissom kept her at arm's length pretending that there was nothing to deal with...so it never got dealt with. "Have a good night."

Brass went looking for Catherine and found she and Cecilia hunched over a computer while AFIS ran the prints that had been retrieved from a home invasion. The two women were staring intently at the screen, while a partial plate check was running on a second computer. He paused in the doorway, watching them for a moment. The blonde and dark heads bent together. Catherine was pointing to the screen and explaining something to the writer.

"Hey, Catherine," Brass interrupted. She looked up and smiled. "Elliott Keeth's memorial service is in Laughlin on Thursday. I'm planning to drive out. Grissom said he's going to be in Reno. I wasn't sure whether you thought you'd want to attend."

Catherine considered it for a moment. "I work Thursday night, with Friday off. Warrick has Thursday off, maybe he'll switch with me. I think he's with Greg. Let me go see what I can do." She left the room in search of Warrick.

Brass came further into the room, observing Cecilia, and was glad to see that she seemed relaxed and with no residual upset from the incident with Sara. She was half turned from him, watching all of the catalogued prints on file flash by, while the computer sought a match to those points that it had identified as being unique to the print that Catherine had scanned in. His dark eyes traced the tanned curve of Cecilia's cheek and chin, down to the hollow of her throat. He imagined how soft she would feel beneath his fingers if they ever had the opportunity to follow that same trail.

She turned her head, smiling up at him, her wine-coloured lips parting slightly to reveal her perfect white smile. Jim felt an acute longing sweep over him. He had thought about Cecilia frequently in the past few days. Wishing for an excuse to bring him over to the lab. Waiting anxiously at crime scenes to see which CSI would be dispatched, disappointed each time it was someone other than Catherine, with Cecilia as her shadow. He had replayed on his inner ear the sultry tones of her voice, wondering what she would think if he just picked up the phone and called her. The desire to be with her again, to just be near her, had been a physical ache.

"There's a new pancake house that opened recently," Jim found himself saying. "I've heard good things. I was wondering, if you don't have plans for breakfast in the morning, if you'd like to try it out." Brass hadn't planned to ask Cecilia for a date when he'd come over tonight. He had imagined asking her out, of course, when the moment seemed right, but to someplace nice. Someplace special. Not to a pancake joint for breakfast after she'd put in a full shift. But seeing her now, Jim knew that he didn't want to go several days without seeing her again. And he grasped at the first thing that had come to him, the new restaurant that some of the guys had been talking about this afternoon.

Cecilia was stunned. Her surprise gave way to excitement. Since Saturday night, she had been daydreaming about the detective. Imagining different scenarios and different ways that Jim Brass might ask her out. She had been frustrated and disappointed when he hadn't been to the lab for a few days. Finding little ways to drop his name into her conversations with Catherine, just so that she could conjure up his face, and remember the sound of his voice. And now, incredibly he was asking her out on a date. Well, for breakfast. A meal at any rate. And since he had waited until Catherine was out of the room, Cecilia believed that he meant just the two of them. Jim Brass was asking her to spend some time with him alone.

"That sounds great," Cecilia answered, trying to keep her smile to a mature, demure curve rather than an ear-to-ear grin.

Jim nodded his pleasure. "Okay. Good. I can meet you in the parking lot at 8 a.m.?"

"I look forward to it," Cecilia told him.

"All right. See you in the morning then," Jim announced. He left the room before she could change her mind.

Outside in the hall, he almost ran into Catherine. "Okay," she said. "It's a date."

"Yeah," Brass said grinning.

Catherine tilted her head, examining the detective carefully. He seemed to be in incredibly good humour all of a sudden. "Are we taking your car? Did you want to pick me up at my place? Or maybe here?" For a moment, Brass seemed befuddled.

Jim realized that Catherine was talking about Elliott's memorial service. Evidently she had been successful in switching shifts with Warrick Brown. He had forgotten that that was what she had gone to do. "I'll pick you up at your place," he told her, refocusing his attention. "The service is midmorning, eleven a.m. How about I be there at eight thirty?"

"I work tomorrow night, but I can leave a bit early, and go home and shower and change," Catherine decided. "I'll be ready and waiting."

"Good. See you then," Brass agreed.

Catherine watched him walk down the hall, imagining that there was a new spring to his step. She had forgotten to ask Jim if he had told Cecilia about his adventures in New Jersey. Cecilia hadn't indicated that he had. But she hadn't really said anything about what had happened after Catherine and Gil had left the writer and the detective together on Saturday night. Catherine had tried to nonchalantly get a few details. All that Cecilia had admitted to was that they had had another drink or two, talked a bit, then gone home.

Catherine hoped that Jim and Cecilia would recognize their mutual attraction and do something about it. There was enough star-crossed-lovers' angst in the lab already, with Sara and Gil.


	20. Chapter 20

The dark of the sky shaded towards the horizon, where the first hints of yellow dawn were easing upwards, pushing the blackness of night back into the celestial void. Soon the soft pinks would begin their journey over the landscape, as the sun began to rise on Nevada.

Of course, the sun wasn't really rising, Sara thought pragmatically. And it was actually a G2 star, one of more than 100 billion stars in this galaxy. While it might look small, seen to be hanging there as viewed by people on the earth's surface, that enormous hydrogen and hellium body accounted for 99 of the mass of the entire solar system. And while it did rotate on it's own axis, once every twenty-five days at it's equator, and as many as thirty-six days near it's poles...since it was not a solid body, but gaseous in nature...the sun did not rotate around the earth. The earth rotated around the sun. The whole idea of the sun rising and setting was a misnomer.

Sara remembered standing out on the balcony with her mother one evening, when she was about ten years old. The sky had glowed with a myriad of reds and golds, the heavy, low cloud cover picking up the hues and blending them in a breathtaking spectacle. Her mother had leaned against the rail, putting one arm around Sara. _"Isn't that the most perfect sunset?"_

The young Sara had launched into a discussion about the scientific facts she had been reading about the sun. Pointing out to her mother that the sun wasn't really setting, the earth was just moving around it. The girl shared the idea of differential rotation, and how it varied from the rotation of the solid mass of the earth. Clinically, Sara had spoken about the incredible temperatures, almost sixteen million Kelvin at the sun's core. She described the nuclear fusion reactions that accounted for the sun's incredible energy output.

Her mother had listened with interest. And then when Sara was done, she had pulled her daughter's head against her chest, and smoothed her long, dark hair. _"My baby," _she had said softly. _"You have the most incredible head on your shoulders. You are such a smart girl and there is no limit to what you will be able to do in your life. I love learning everything that you just told me, and I am so proud of you and your never-ending quest to discover knowledge." _She had paused then. _"But there's more to the sun than all of those facts and figures. Once in a while, my Sara, take some time to see the beauty of things. To allow a little mystery into your life. To look at the sky and imagine instead one of heaven's best artists dipping brush to ink and using the undersides of the clouds as a canvas, he or she creating a temporary masterpiece for our viewing pleasure. A one-of-a-kind sunset that no one has seen before in exactly that form, or will ever see again. It's good to know things, Sara. But it's good to _feel_ them too."_

Only Sara didn't _want_ to feel things. She prefered to bury her nose in a book. She wanted the consistency and the solidity and the unquestionable predictability of logic and science and fact. The young girl wanted to forget the sudden anger that would flare within the walls of the Sidle household. She wanted to forget the ugliness and the pain. That nebulous world of emotion was unpredictable. Everything could be happy one moment, and tragic the next. It was impossible to anticipate and plan for. It was too hard to stay safe in that world of emotion and dreams. Sara wanted the security of unchanging fact, and to concentrate on those things that were within her control.

But nothing was in her control these day, she realized. Sara sat on the hood of the black Denali, parked near the edge of a small rockface that dropped away to a small valley still blanketed in shadow. Her bent legs were drawn tight to her body, her thin arms clasped around them, her chin resting on the slight depression between her knees. She was staring off into the distance, thinking, waiting for a new day to dawn.

Sara had been out towards Barstow, on a domestic assault case. The battered body of the unconscious woman had been transported to the hospital. Her partner maintained that she had fallen down the stairs, going to get a drink of water in the dark. The cops on the scene were confident that the doctors at the hospital would be able to show that the woman's injuries were inconsistent with the man's story. But CSI had been called in to substantiate abuse. And Sara had been able to do so, through the collection of both primary evidence on the boyfriend, and secondary evidence on the scene. She had worked silently, furiously, identifying far too closely with the victim that she hadn't even seen, but who the EMTs and ER staff worked to save.

She knew that she had to get the kits and swabs and photographs back to the lab. But Sara simply hadn't had the energy to drive any further, feeling spent by her emotional intensity at the scene, and her concentration had been compromised. So she had pulled over, taking a seldom used access road out to this isolated spot. Sara had popped a CD into the player, then gotten out of the SUV, walking along the ledge, scuffing the ground with the tips of her sturdy hiking shoes, before hopping onto the Denali's hood and assuming her current pose, while the desert began to luminesce and the vehicle throbbed beneath her with a heavy bass beat.

Sara was filled with remorse for what she had said about Cecilia Laval earlier that night, and especially that the novelist had overheard her remarks. In truth, Sara didn't have anything against the woman. Cecilia was alright. Sara had certainly had never meant to hurt her. Her heart constricted at the memory of the shock on the writer's face, and the realization that she had wounded the other woman deeply, whether that had been her intention or not.

She couldn't keep doing this. She couldn't keep bottling up her anger and her frustration and her feelings for Grissom, only to release them periodically in an incendiary flash that ended up burning herself and others. Sara was ashamed of her behaviour. Hated the way she was acting, but couldn't seem to control herself. And if there was one thing Sara hated...it was not being in control.

On the stereo, Annie Lennox's voice reverberated, coming through the lowered windows and sending a message to Sara's blighted soul as the sound swept over her and down the gully. The song was set to repeat, the message hammering away at the brunette. At the centre of everything, of all of the unhappiness, the self-doubt, the personal and professional dissastisfaction, was Grissom. It was long past time for Sara to deal with this situation. To do something before it consumed not only herself, but those around her. She listened to the words, identifying with the lyrics of the Eurythmics song that had been popular in the 80s, when Sara had been a teen.

_Love is a stranger  
In an open car  
To tempt you in_

_And drive you far away..._

The phone call had come in just before the end of shift. _"Miss Sidle, call for you from a Mr. Gil Grissom, LVPD CSI."_

Sara had lifted the receiver, surprised to be hearing from him. Curious as to what he wanted. Excited to hear his voice again.

_"Sara? It's Grissom? I need a favour. I've already cleared things with Mark." _Mark Tremblay was Sara's supervisor at the San Francisco CSI lab. _"We've got a bit of a situation here. I need someone on the outside. Someone who's a good CSI. Someone I can trust." _Sara had grinned to herself at the praise. _"One of our CSIs was killed. We need an investigation into the circumstances."_

Sara had seen the news reports on the shooting of Holly Gribbs in Las Vegas. And had waited anxiously for an update when the young woman was taken to the ER, her status critical. Sara had thought about Grissom...relief that he hadn't been the one to be working that case or it could have been his body pumped full of bullets...and sympathy that someone he knew, a co-worker, had been injured. When she had heard news that Gribbs hadn't made it, Sara had felt the anger and the pain of the senseless loss.

She had agreed to come to Las Vegas as soon as it could be arranged, and had flown to the desert gambling town two days later, her sorrow at the circumstances that were taking her there, intermingled with her anticipation at seeing Gil Grissom again. She had met him for the first time three years previously, at an entomology conference. Bugs weren't her thing, but she'd known enough and shown enough interest to stand out from the crowd, and the scientist had noticed her. They'd shared a lunch that had been the bright spot of the conference, for Sara. She had been intrigued by Grissom's amazing mind, and even though he wasn't her usual physical 'type' she had found him very attractive.

Two years after that, almost a year to the day before he had asked her for her help, Gil had been called out to San Francisco to assist with a decomp case. His expertise as an entomologist had been invaluable in determining a time line and solving the murder of a young gay man, the victim of a hate crime. Sara had reveled in being able to work with him. She had learned a lot, professionally, from their short time together.

Additionally, it had cemented her feelings for him on a more personal level. She had sensed in Gil Grissom a bit of a kindred spirit. Another bright but socially inept science geek who kept his innermost thoughts and feelings to himself. When it had been time for Gil to go back to Las Vegas, Sara had already been crazy about him. She hadn't said anything of course, and had accepted that their paths crossing but nothing coming of it, was just another of the disappointments life liked to throw her way.

When Gil had phoned and requested that she come to Las Vegas, Sara had been sure that it was a sign. Of all of the CSIs that Grissom knew, he had wanted her.

_...And I want you  
And I want you  
And I want you  
So it's an obsession..._

She had fulfilled the role he had bestowed on her, investigating Holly Gribbs' death, digging to determine where Warrick Brown had been and what he had been doing when he should have been watching the rookie. Sara had been firm and no nonsense, suggesting to Warrick that anything he had to hide would be better volunteered on his own, rather than dredged up by her queries. Because whatever there was, she would uncover it. Sara had wanted to be dedicated and efficient and to prove herself worthy of Gil's faith.

As a result of the whole tragedy, Jim Brass had been busted down to homicide detective again. Grissom had been elevated to night shift supervisor. Despite what they had all learned in the aftermath of the young CSI's death, Gil had been forgiving of Warrick, and had refused to take any action beyond the temporary suspension that Brass had imposed. Warrick Brown hadn't held it against Sara that she had come with the explicit intent to turn him upside down and inside out while searching out the truth of the circumstances that had surrounded Holly Gribbs's murder. There had been some early wariness between them, and a couple of occasions where Sara had misjudged Warrick badly, but in the intervening months and years they had developed a working rapport that had evolved into genuine friendship.

The Vegas lab was short a criminalist, with Gribbs' death. When Gil had offered the position to Sara, she had been overwhelmed, though she had struggled to appear nonchalant. Vegas was probably the premier lab in the country, the premier lab in the west at the very least, and professionally it was an intriguing opportunity and a good career move. Personally, the idea of working with Gil Grissom on a permanent basis had sent Sara into a happy tailspin. While she had never qualified her feelings as love, up to that point, she knew that what she felt for him was something beyond a lustful desire or a fleeting infatuation.

Sara had known that mingling work and romance was a bad idea, and had never before been interested in a man that she worked so closely with. The fact that Grissom would be her boss was an added complication, of course. But Sara had believed that whatever risk she was taking in staying, she would be risking even more by walking out of his life and not taking this chance.

_...Love is a danger  
Of a different kind  
To take you away  
And leave you far behind..._

Sara had had no idea how her decision would impact on her life. Though she had managed to be in close proximity to Grissom every day, and should have been able to get to know him better, and to allow him to know her, rather than their being able to draw nearer to one another, a small rift began that had continued to widen until it became a huge gap. And it had seemed to start the moment Sara had pinned on the nametag that identified her as one of LVPD's criminalists.

Puzzled, she had watched the days, weeks and eventually months slip past while Grissom had retreated from her more and more on an emotional level. She had learned, chagrined, that he was not nearly as wonderful to work for, as he was to work with. Though bright and thorough, virtually unmatched as a forensic scientist, his skills as a supervisor left something to be desired. Sara believed that it was the strength of her co-workers, Nick, Warrick and Catherine, and her own, that kept the group as such a cohesive unit, moreso than Gil's non-existant team-building overtures or any ability to identify and bond with his CSIs on an emotional level.

They all respected him of course. Deeply. And enjoyed working with him. And benefitted from his mentoring. What he lacked in one area, he more than made up for in another. And since the individual members of the nightshift were so strong, the lack of a paternal centre did not damage the group.

Sara knew that she needed more from Grissom though. She simply wasn't satisfied with only a working relationship. She was confused by what she perceived as mixed signals. Sometimes, she thought she could feel Gil's interest in her, like a palpable, living thing. It hung over them, coiled around like the mighty crushing force of an articulated python, squeezing them together with such psychic and emotional force that it would leave her feeling physically weak and breathless.

At other times, even when he was just across the room, or next to her in the SUV, the coldness that Grissom radiated created such a distance that Sara was sure she could never rappel the mountaintop where he sat, alone and unaffected. She would begin to understand that whatever her feelings, Gil didn't share them. That any dreams of a man-woman relationship were just that...dreams. And she would make a valiant attempt to go on with her life. To date other men. To excorcise her feelings for Grissom.

And then he would do something to reel her back in again. Like presenting her with a book at Christmastime, which Sara would later learn was an unique gesture, because he hadn't given gifts to any of the others. And her foolish heart would read more into it than Grissom had seemed to intend.

_...And love love love  
Is a dangerous drug  
You have to receive it  
And you still can't  
Get enough of the stuff...  
_

Just like she had that night when they had sat up together in the parking lot, with the carcass of the pig. Sara had found Grissom alone outside. It was one of those chilly Vegas evenings, and she had brought him a thermos of coffee, and a blanket. He had smiled at her gratefully, as she had taken a seat next to him. Sara thought that the walls had crumbled a bit that night. That Grissom had appreciated her company even more than the hot brew and the cotton throw around his shoulders.

They has spoken haltingly at first. About work, as they always did. Gradually, tentatively, Gil had begun to open up to her. He'd told her about Uncle Stan, his mother's brother who had initiated him to the wonderful world of insects all of those years ago. Grissom's voice had been soft with fond remembrance. His words had held the recollection of his wonder at unveiling this interest that would shape his life. Sara had been captivated to be privy to his thoughts.

In turn, she had shared a bit of her younger years with him. Not the ugly parts, of course. Those she kept locked in an impenetrable vault, away from the shocked repulsion of those who peopled her present day life. But not all of her memories were bad. She had told him about the science fair she'd entered when she'd been in sixth grade. About her teacher, Mr. Carlisle, who had noticed her aptitude for the sciences, and who had encouraged Sara to excel.

Her project, about global warming, had garnered first prize. When Sara had taken the stage during the presentations, feeling shy and awkward as she always did when she drew attention...embarassed that she was already taller than all of the girls and most of the boys, and rail thin, with long, coltish legs...she had noticed her mother, front and centre in the audience. Standing and clapping, initiating the ovation, a smile of pure joy in her delicate features as she had celebrated her daughter's victory. It had been a shining moment for the young girl, and the love that had radiated from her mother had soothed any of Sara's doubts and insecurities and allowed her to truly enjoy the moment, and to savour her win.

The one thing that Sara had held back from Grissom was her almost overwhelming relief as she had realized that her mother, clapping enthusiastically despite the cast on her left hand, looked younger than Sara had ever seen her...happier than Sara had ever seen her...all of her pain and problems temporarily forgotten as she had embraced Sara's success.

They had sat there, Grissom making his notes, and Sara couldn't remember the last time she had felt so light-hearted and relaxed. It was the night that had precipitated her becoming a vegetarian, documentating the arrival of the flies as they had. She had stayed, even though watching nature begin it's inexorable march as the pig was transformed into it's most basic elements, had caused her stomache to rebel. Ashes to ashes...dust to dust. Worms and maggots. It had been, Sara thought, a pivotal moment in their relationship.

And yet when Sara had shared a bit of what had occured that night with Cecilia not long ago, explaining her reasons for becoming vegetarian, Grissom had sat there, his face a mask in boredom, as though she had been telling someone else's story. He hadn't even looked at Sara or acknowledged his part in it at all. She had been humiliated by his disinterest, wounded that the memory that was so special to her, meant nothing to him at all.

But that was the way it had always been between them. She would get her hopes up, and then Grissom would indicate to her time and time again that her interest was not reciprocated. And yet Sara just couldn't seem to take no for an answer. Over and over she would set herself up for disappointment. As though she had some kind of Grissom-addiction, and as long as she could be near him, even a negative outcome was better than forfeiting the interaction altogether.

_...It's savage and it's cruel  
And it shines like destruction  
Comes in like the flood  
And it seems like religion  
It's noble and it's brutal  
It distorts and deranges  
And it wrenches you up  
And you're left like a zombie...  
_

Of course it wasn't all negative. And that was the problem. His attitude towards her was a constant source of confusion for Sara. She lived in a heightened state of expectation, followed by disappointment, before he would soothe her bruised and battered heart, only to rip it from her chest again.

Sara had tried to escape the cycle once before. She had given Grissom a request for a leave of abscence. She had certainly had enough time coming to her. The sudden request had thrown him for a bit of a loop, she had known. Even though her unhappiness and lack of satisfaction had been building for some time, he had been oblivious, as always. She had told him that she was going to pursue other avenues, perhaps check out the federal system. She had an acquaintance from university who worked with a profiler at Quantico. She could get Sara in to see the right people, and arrange for an interview with the F.B.I.

Grissom had laughed at her aspirations, insisting that theirs was the best lab in the country, and implying that anything else would be a step backward. When she had told him that she needed more...professionally in the form of respect, and communication...he had frowned at her and asked if this was about 'that hamburger thing'. An incident when he had asked her to clean up the leftover hamburger from one of his experiments, forgetting that she couldn't even stand to look at meat, let alone touch it, after 'the night of the pig'. He had been so totally clueless, taking all of her valid concerns and logical decision, and making it seem so petty, that it was just too deflating for Sara to even try to explain why she had to get away.

She had come close to making the break. Grissom would have approved her leave of abscence. He would have had no choice, eventually. Only...he'd done it again. Suckered her back in. Had Sara thinking that he really did care about her. Not just as a CSI, but as a person. As a woman. First it had been that damn plant. Some kind of ivy that had showed up at work, with a card _'From Grissom'._ And so Sara had begun to thaw. And then one night not too long afterwards, in an ice rink, following the death of an amateur hockey player at the bottom of a pile-on, Grissom had said the words that had made her withdraw her request for leave.

_"Since when have you been interested in beauty," _Sara had teased him, chuckling, after a comment Grissom had made.

He had looked at her then, his blue eyes as vast and unending as a summer's sky, holding hers, mesmerizing her. And his lips had curled just a bit, to soften the intensity of his gaze, and Grissom had said, _"Since I met you."_

It was the first concrete evidence of his interest, and a turning point, or so Sara had thought. She had replayed those words over and over in her mind, so many times since he had uttered them. Each time feeling that same thrill. That same longing. That same boost to her ego. That same desperate belief that he _did_ care. That it was only a matter of time. That if she guided him gently enough, Grissom would eventually declare his feelings about her for once and for all.

Sara _knew_ there was passion there too. She could feel the electricity between them. One night, tearing down walls in an apartment building, looking for the dead body that Grissom was certain was hidden somewhere within, Sara had wanted him so much, ached for him so badly, that she had been unable to stop herself from touching his face. She had told him that he had drywall dust on his cheek, but that had only been an excuse for the contact that she craved. For just a moment he had leaned into her open palm, his cheek warm and cleanly shaven beneath her fingers. And Sara was convinced that Grissom had wanted the touch as much as she had.

Once, she had almost thought he would kiss her. They were examining the pattern of blood evidence on a bedsheet. Talking through the way they imagined the scene had occured. Envisioning the placements of body and hands of both victim and perp. Sara had stood against the sheet, while Gil had taken both of her wrists, pressing her arms back the way the killer would have, his body close to hers, his face only inches away. Her eyes had darted nervously to his lips. She had found it hard to concentrate on the experiment. Her wrists burned where he held them. Sara had seen the sweat that had beaded his brow. Had felt the accelerated respirations of his breath against her skin. And then he was releasing her, while every nerve ending screamed its frustration.

_...And I want you  
And I want you  
And I want you  
So it's an obsession..._

Sara had been unable to hide her longing anymore. She hadn't wanted to have to pretend another day that her feelings for Gil were either of the mentor/pupil or friend variety. She knew that there was _something _there and she had been willing to put everything on the line to find out just what it was and where it might take them. Tired of being alone, ready to open up to another human being and to allow him in completely, Sara, unable to wait any longer, had mustered up her courage, and gone to Grissom.

Her heart had galloped in her chest as she had stood there, issuing her invitation for dinner. Suggesting that whatever it was between them, it was time to explore it. Sara had been optimistic, uncharacteristically hopeful, and couldn't remember ever feeling as vulnerable in her adult life as she had in those few seconds between asking Grissom to have dinner with her, and waiting for his response.

Even when he had tilted his head, closing his eyes for a moment, opening his mouth to speak, then closing it again before he could, and it had been clear that rejection was coming, Sara had been unable to accept that and to just give up her dream. Not when she was so close. Not when she knew that in Gil's arms, she could finally morph into the Sara that had for so long been hidden beneath the fear and the pain and the memories of a past that she could never seem to escape.

So when he had said that one simple word, _"No," _Sara had been unwilling to give up. She had swallowed the last remnants of her pride, and tried to convince him that they both deserved the chance to see where their attraction might lead.

But Grissom had made it clear. No matter how much Sara wanted him, no matter how much he might want her on some level, it simply wasn't enough.

None of it had meant anything, not really. Not Gil's asking her to come to Vegas in the first place. Not his asking her to stay. Not the book at Christmas, or the potted ivy, or even his words about his interest in beauty...his interest in her.

Even when that nurse had been killed. The one who had eerily resembled Sara. And they had brought that doctor in for interrogation. She had stood on the other side of the glass, and observed Grissom and Brass, as they had shared with the good doctor what they believed had happened. The only problem had been that all they had was speculation and instinct. There was no hard, physical evidence to tie the physician to the crime.

As the man had left the interrogation room, Grissom had spoken to him. About middle-aged men who had nothing but their careers. Who were given a chance to embrace life, through the love of a beautiful, younger woman. Gil had said that he hadn't been able to risk his current life when offered that chance. But he believed that the doctor had. And that when the beautiful young nurse, who had shown him how wonderfully complete life could be, turned her affection from him, and took that life away, the doctor had killed her for it.

_"We wake up one day and realize that for fifty years we haven't really lived at all. But then, all of a sudden, we get a second chance. Somebody young and beeautiful shows up. Somebody...we could car about. She offers us a new life with her. But we have a big decision to make, right? Because we have to everything we've worked for, in order to have her. I couldn't do it..."_

Sara had thought at the time that Gil had been speaking from the heart. And that he had been speaking about her. That it was only fear of how his interest in her would compromise the professional reputation he had spent years building, or perhaps his lack of faith in his ability to sustain a relationship, that was the stumbling block between them. Sara had thought, for a long time, that he had meant the words he had spoken to the physician. That Grissom did want her, but that things were just complicated.

Or perhaps...and the realization had been humilating...Grissom _had_ meant those introspective words. Only he hadn't been talking about _her, _Sara. But about another woman altogether. Perhaps Lady Heather, the sultry dominatrix that she had heard Grissom had found an excuse to return to, time and time again. Or someone else that Gil had had an attraction for, that he believed it would be too big a chance to pursue.

She had come to accept that while he wanted her around, for some reason or the other, he didn't really want _her_. Not with all of the fierce longing...mental, spiritual, emotional and physical...that Sara wanted him.

_...It's guilt edged  
Glamorous and sleek by design  
You know it's jealous by nature  
False and unkind  
It's hard and restrained  
And it's totally cool  
It touches and it teases  
As you stumble in the debris..._

Sara couldn't continue to live like this. She hated the woman she was becoming. Bitter and jealous. The truth was that even if there was nothing between Catherine and Gil...there was never ever going to be anything between Gil and Sara. Whatever Grissom felt for her, it wasn't keeping him up nights to have to restrain his feelings. It wasn't stopping him from appreciating other women.

Other than a few incredibly small incidents that she had blown way out of proportion, Gil had never indicated to Sara that he saw her as more than a friend. Or that there was any kind of future for them. In fact, he had made it abundantly clear, time and again, that there was no 'them' and that he didn't want there to be.

It wasn't that Grissom wasn't delivering the message, it was that she...Sara...was refusing to accept it. She continued to stumble through the months and the years, accepting the crumbs, while day by day her soul continued to wither. When she looked in the mirror these days, she saw the unrelenting hardness in her eyes. She had once had a nice smile, Sara thought, but lately it had been nothing more than a bitter curve of compressed lips. Frighteningly, there had been a couple of times when she had turned to alcohol to try to make sense of her confused life, and to take the edge off of the pain.

She would find herself lashing out at others, when the torment of her loneliness, and jealousy, and her need became overpowering. And then Sara would live with remorse and regrets, and apologies. She couldn't keep doing this. Hurting others. Hurting herself. Continuing to spiral out of control, ranting and raging at the heavens because her heart's desire was denied to her.

_...And I want you  
And I want you  
And I want you so  
It's an obsession..._

Nothing about this situation with Grissom was healthy or positive. It was sick and warped. It wasn't love. It was...an obsession. Sara had latched onto Grissom knowing that he could never give her what she needed. Because he was older and smarter and he had that wall around himself...and deep inside Sara felt that if she could break down that wall, if she could gain his love and acceptance, it would heal all of the wounds of her past. Because he represented Sara's desperate need to change the outcome of her mother's tragic and unhealthy relationship, to repair things and to redirect the past.

While her mother's situation had been different in almost every way, when it came right down to it, Sara realized that she was modelling that relationship. It hadn't been love either, not that kind of positive, supportive, compassionate, enriching and uplifting experience that love was supposed to be. It had been dark and brooding and desperate and pain-filled, and had caused her mother to accept indignities that no woman should have to endure, because of some twisted belief that she was in love, and that love would conquer all.

But that wasn't love. That was an obsession. And here was Sara, decades later, reliving that relationship model. Investing in something that was unhealthy and unfulfilling. Sara didn't love Gil Grissom...she was obsessed with him. And if she didn't do something soon, she would drown in the undertow of that unnatural desire, completely losing any semblance of the woman that she really was. The Sara that she knew would be replaced with this shrewish, pained, cruel and quarrelsome doppleganger.

And then not only wouldn't Grissom love and respect her, Sara wouldn't be able to love and respect herself.

There were no clouds in the sky this morning, just the vast expanse blue. But where earth met the heavens, there was a coral pink blush.

_"Once in a while, my Sara, take some time to see the beauty of things. To allow a little mystery into your life. To look at the sky and imagine instead one of heaven's best artists dipping brush to ink and using the undersides of the clouds as a canvas, he or she creating a temporary masterpiece for our viewing pleasure."_

There would be no elaborate, romantic sunrises or sunsets for Sara and Gil Grissom. No joining of two hearts, filled with the wonder and beauty of the world.

There would only be theresidual glow of a G2 star. A hydrogen and hellium body on a differential rotation. Burning an incredible sixteen million Kelvin at it's centre. While one nuclear fusion reaction after another, sent light energy blasting across the galaxy towards the third planet in its orbit. A planet that turned on its own axis, while circling the big star, first one side towards the fiery, golden ball, then the other, so that the earth spent half of its solar day warmed by the results of those reactions, and the other half turned away, blanketed in darkness. That changing from dark to light, and light to dark again, observed with clinical eyes and empty hearts.

No beauty. No mystery. Just a cold, compilation of scientific data. An accurate but empty portrayal of life.

_Thank you for the encouraging comments. And I apologize to anyone who finds 'song fic' cheesy. I've been unable to get this one 'Love is Stranger' out of my mind, because it seems to encapsulate the way I view the Sara/Grissom relationship. Cathy._


	21. Chapter 21

"So I understand that before you came to Las Vegas you made quite an impact on law enforcement in New Jersey?" Cecilia asked, pouring syrup over her blackberry crepe, looking at Jim Brass quizzically across the table.

Jim gave a wry smile. "Catherine," he mumbed, more to himself than to Cecilia. He gazed at Cecilia while he shook out a paper napkin and set it in his lap. Well, he thought, he might as well tell the story now. "Yeah, I'm a regular Serpico," he told her with a self-deprecating chuckle. "Except I'm not as good looking as Al Pacino." He winked.

_I disagree, _Cecilia thought, though she was too shy to verbalize it. Instead she just made a soft clicking sound with her tongue and shook her head to indicate that she thought otherwise.

Brass had had no idea what _Flap Jacks_ would be like. It turned out to be a fifties style diner, all imitation red leather and chrome, the servers all looking like the ensemble cast from _Grease_, the men with slicked back hair, ducktails, jeans and white tees, the women with bubblegum pink dresses, little white aprons, saddle shoes and hair in pony tails. All that they needed was the roller skates to really cement the time warp. It was kind of kitschy, Brass thought, but Cecilia had laughed with delight and seemed to think the place had a certain charm.

All that they served, all day long, was a variety of pancakes, waffles and crepes. Including combinations that he had never imagined before. Such as the pineapple coconut pankcakes and the canoli crepes. It wasn't the ideal 'first date' but Jim was just happy to be with Cecilia.

Jim took a swig of his coffee, gathering his thoughts for a moment. Going back to that pivotal period in his life...taking that journey back in time...was far more difficult than he ever let on. "It was about twenty years ago," he began. "I'd been with the Atlantic City PD for a few years by then. It was the first force I joined, back when I was still an idealistic kid. I don't know if you've been there, but Atlantic City is on Abescon Island, just off the Jersey shore. Nancy and I lived in Margate, another town on the island. I told you my dad was a cop too, though he worked with a smaller detachment. Port Norris, where I grew up. It's just a little fly speck of a town. Dad was a New Jersey State Trooper. He was retired by the time all of this went down." Brass's dark eyes took on a faraway look as he thought about his father, who had passed away three years ago. "He's dead now, heart attack a few years back."

"I'm sorry," Cecilia murmured.

Jim nodded his acknowledgement of the condolences. "Anyhow, back in those days, the early and mid-eighties, there was a problem in the ACPD. Dirty cops in the pocket of the mob. Guys paid to look the other way. Corruption all the way up to the Chief of Police. It wasn't all of the guys, or even most of the guys. But it was there.

"To understand everything, you have to realize what was happening in America at this point in time, and in law enforcement, from local to state to national. In the seventies, pot was the big problem drug. The importation of pot was more or less successfully squelched by the early eighties. To make it profitable, marijuana had to be smuggled into the U.S. in large bales, which were easier to catch. About a third of the pot shipped into the U.S. in the mid-eighties was getting intercepted.

"So while it was harder to get weed, at the same time cocaine was getting cheaper and more available. It was easier to conceal. There was a techonology being used in the Bahamas to turn it into crack, and that became the new big drug here, selling at the lower end of the scale. By eighty-nine the price of coke would be less than half what it was in seventy-nine."

Brass paused, remembering some of the scenes he had been called to in his rookie years, where cocaine had been a factor in the commission of a crime. He recalled the sad addicts, and the desperate families. The ruined lives.

Cecilia waited while Jim ate a few forkfuls of his buttermilk pancakes. She remembered being in college, and the first time that someone had offered her the drug at a party. She had declined, having no interest in illegal drugs, though she hadn't minded the mood altering properties of alcohol. She had been more or less responsible with her consumption, however, always having been what her roommate teasingly referred to as a 'goody two shoes'. But there had been quite a few students of her acquaintance who had been turned on to coke.

She listened as Jim went on to describe the drug and how it was affecting society. Cocaine, known by a variety of names on the street, including coke, C, snow, blow and Bolivian marching powder, could be inhaled, ingested, smoked, or taken intravenously. It was considered the most addictive substance known to man. Though it had started out as a white-collar drug of choice, soon it was found at all socio-economic levels. Cheap crack became the bane of inner cities.

While other well-known drugs, such as opium, heroin and morphine were depressants, cocaine was a stimulant. It was similar to getting a massive jolt of adrenaline, and had the user feeling unusually confident, alert and energetic. It had an effect on the so-called 'pleasure circuits' of the brain. A high might last from ten minutes to half an hour. Coming down meant anxiety, depression and an overwhelming urge for the next hit.

"Coke, most of which was produced in Columbia, became the drug of choice for many Americans," Brass continued. "Law enforcement declared a war on drugs. In the mid-eighties prisons were overflowing because of the minimum-mandatory drug sentences that had been passed. Perps of other crimes saw their own sentences reduced, and got undeserved early paroles, because there just wasn't room to house them. We're even talking violent crimes, and repeat offenders who were a danger to society. Their crimes didn't have mandatory minimums, and so much focus was on drugs, that they just lucked out. Cocaine was becoming more and more of a problem though. We saw the rise of 'crack whores', trading sex for drugs, and 'cocaine kids' started showing up in large numbers in the early eighties.

The detective told Cecilia about a Massachusetts study of the time that suggested a quarter of all high school seniors had used coke. And about incidents that showed it was prevalent even in the armed forces, in the ranks of the police department, among housewives and CEOs. It was the drug that knew no boundaries. Jim paused, looking at Cecilia who sipped a glass of tomato juice. "This isn't exactly fun conversation," he told her apologetically.

"I'm interested in the whole story," Cecilia assured him.

"Most countries in South and Central America had some connection to the drug trade. You had the major drug cartels who also influenced those areas politically, actually controlling them in some instances. Even if coke wasn't actually being processed, many countries were transshipment points. The main port of entry into the U.S. was through Miami. From there it came up the coast to Atlantic City." Jim took another few mouthfuls of his pancakes. "These are pretty good," he allowed. "How's yours?"

Cecilia smiled. "Delicious."

"So, that's the background. In Atlantic City, as elsewhere, there was this big push to fight the war on drugs, even at the expense of other problems. Voters indicated to politicians that they wanted something done. There was a lot of pressure on law enforcement to do something about the availability and usage of drugs. Things such as property crimes seemed to pale in comparison, and barely warranted an investigation. All of the manpower and resources went into fighting drugs. Paid informants would trade addresses where there was illegal activity, in exchange for cash. Half the time they were high themselves, and sometimes they gave wrong addresses. But those were mostly in the poor part of town, so there wasn't too big of an outcry when a mistake was made.

"We did a lot of what we called 'no knock' raids," Jim explained. "We'd just bust into an apartment, kicking the door down without warning. It gave us the element of surprise which was a lot safer." But not always safe, Jim knew. He'd broken down doors before to come face to face with a junkie pointing a loaded gun in his face. And he knew a cop who'd been killed during a no knock. When you just never knew was was going to be on the other side of the door, you could never get the ice out of your gut. Because as the good guys, they couldn't just shoot without ascertaining what the situation was. The bad guys though knew that when someone was breaking down the door that their speed with the trigger and their markmanship might be the only thing between them and freedom. And they had no such compunction about shooting first and asking questions later.

"We made a ton of arrests, and got a lot of convictions. Except...all we seemed to be doing was getting the little guys. There just never seemed enough evidence to prosecute the major players. There was always something...some procedural mistake that meant evidence was dissallowed. Or evidence itself would go missing. Or the D.A.'s office just never thought there was enough to prosecute. It became frustratingly obvious that there was a fix in. Someone was on the payroll. Once in a while a minor dealer would get sent away, just for appearances, usually someone who had ticked off the mob. But there were the untouchables, and nothing we were doing was having any real impact on the problem." Brass frowned at the memory, feeling the old anger and resentment again.

"The mob was still pretty big in AC. They'd come in with the casinos originally, and stuck around. They were more low key than in the early days. And hard to ferret out because of all of their legit activities. But everyone knew who was who and what was up. The same guys who muscled and controlled other aspects of the game, and had already made their bones, had their hands in the drug business too. They also had the buy in at the precinct, and again though there were all kinds of rumours, there was nothing anyone could prove.

"Nationally, the Kingpin Program in Latin America, that went after the major cartel operators, had a trickle down affect to state and local enforcement at home. There was money, new and needed resources, for stings and undercover operations. We had a captain, Ken Kraus, who was a good cop, a stand up guy, and he knew that we had to clean up our own house before we'd ever make a dent in the drug problem. So, he approached me, and it was arranged I'd go undercover, to try to ferret out who on our side was dirty, by trying to work my way into the mob."

Brass signaled one of the waitresses who refilled his coffee. He took a long swallow. "Well, my cover was blown before I even got out of the gate. There were only a couple of guys in the precinct who knew what was up, but one of them talked. My first night trying to make contact, I almost got taken out. It was just dumb luck that I wasn't killed. Took a bullet to the shoulder. All I remember is standing there in the dark alley, trying to set up a buy, then waking up in the hospital, my chest wrapped in bandages." He shrugged off the seriousness of the event.

"Oh my gosh!" Cecilia blurted, feeling sick at the idea that Jim could have been killed. Even though this had occured two decades ago, she couldn't believe how cavalier he seemed about having been shot.

Brass took in the wide-eyed shock in her dark eyes. He read the concern on her lovely features. Even though it had been a long time ago, and he'd made a full recovery, knowing that she cared warmed him. "Just wasn't my time, I guess," he commented philosophically. "I didn't suffer any ill effects. Just a nasty scar. They removed the bullet. It hadn't damaged anything major. As it turned out, my getting shot was actually the break we needed.

"Kraus came to me, and we hatched a plan. We were going to put out the word that _I_ was one of the dirty cops. In essence, it was to appear that someone on the inside was framing me. The incident would ruin my career. Kraus transfered to another Jersey PD, and the story was that he'd been run out of town, scared that whoever was engineering my troubles, might target him next. So, without stepping up to my defense, it would look like he'd cut and run, leaving me to hang. We brought in the feds and no one outside of their agents, Kraus and myself knew what was up. Back at the precinct there was talk of prosecution and jail time for my part in 'illicit activities'.

"When you try to kill a man, you make an enemy. You give him incentive to come after you. When you ruin his name, take away what he loves most, you deflate and emasculate him.

"The Chief of Police, Bernie Demato, a smug son-of-a-gun, gave me the option to quit quietly, and fade away, and not face any charges. He made it clear that they had all kinds of fabricated evidence that would put me away for a long time. So, I pretended to fight the righteous fight for a bit, before coming to my senses, realizing it was a losing battle, and that if I was smart I'd just slink away and be grateful to have my life, even if I no longer had my career."

It had been a good plan, Jim reminisced. There was so much confusion, and it was so hard to know who you could trust and who you couldn't at that point, that even the cops who initially had stood by him, when confronted with all of the planted evidence, began to wonder if it wasn't true that Jim Brass was a dirty cop. It had been hard for him to watch the men he cared for doubt him, and to know that he had lost their respect and their friendship.

"So, I became the bitter ex-cop who began to drink and hang around the bars and was heard plotting ways to get even and to stick it to the ACPD any way I could. Because of the delicateness of the operation, and the possible danger to those involved, not just me but the DEA guys, and Kraus, I couldn't tell anyone the truth. Not my parents, or my brother. Not my wife, Nancy. Because one slip up could jeopardize the whole thing. And it was important to be as convincing as possible."

Cecilia frowned. "That must have been difficult," she said compassionately. "Especially having to keep that kind of a secret from your wife."

Jim sighed. "To tell you the truth, by that point our marriage was already in deep trouble. It wasn't as hard not to bring her in on things, as it could have been." He recalled the fights that they had had once he had 'resigned' from the force. When he had failed to find another job right away, and had instead begun spending time at the bars, Nancy had been furious and demeaning. She never could have put on as convincing an act if she had known the truth, and it was important for his disillusionment to appear genuine to those who might be monitoring the situation.

"Eventually," Brass continued, "the charade paid off. I was approached by a detective on the force. Mike O'Toole. He just happened to see me in the bars on a couple of different occasions, bought me a few drinks, commiserated with me. Let me spew about the force and how trying to do things the 'right way' never paid and stuff like that. I guess while he was sounding me out, he had other people investigating me.

"Finally, O'Toole told me he had a way for me to get back on my feet, and to screw over the ACPD. He buttered me up, saying a guy with my skills, knowledge and street connections had what it took to be somebody in this town. He convinced me that I deserved to live the good life, and that there was a way to recoup the respect I'd lost. He more or less told me that the mob could use someone like me to further its drug interests, and that a smart guy could work his way up in the organization.

"I listened, but couldn't appear too over eager. He knew that I wasn't really a bad cop but had been set up, and that somewhere underneath there would still probably be a man who would rebel at being a part of what he'd been fighting against for so long. So I turned him down the first time, acted PO'd, said I didn't want to hear about that, and couldn't be a part of something as ugly as drugs. And I left the bar."

"A couple of weeks later, he approached me again, with a couple of friends. They gave me the sales pitch, and I imagine it was the same one they used to get a lot of guys to turn, or to look the other way. It was a whole spiel about how human beings have a need, a natural drive to pursue an altered state to make ourselves feel better and to deal with the harsh realities of our lives." Brass gave a gruff laugh. "O'Toole said that just about everyone depended on some kind of drug or the other, from that first cup of java in the morning.

"He pointed out how alcohol is an accepted part of our society, and how many people were getting rich off of that, legally, while alcohol was responsible for more problems, heartaches, ruined lives and deaths in this country than all illegal drugs combined. And then there was tobacco, and although people were getting more educated and starting to speak out in it's usage, it was still widely used and available for a legal, acceptable buzz. But alcohol and tobacco were safe havens, out of the combat zone in the war on drugs, and happily and respectably legal. Even though the tolls they take on society were just as bad, if not worse, than the effects of pot or cocaine. The only reason the government was involved, or fighting this at all, was because they were ticked they weren't getting their piece of the pie.

"I had to hand it to him," Jim commented, "it was a real convincing line. O'Toole was smooth, a born salesman, a good looking guy, clean cut, who came across as non-threatening and trustworthy. And there was enough truth in what he had to say, that I could see how some guys could set aside their moral objections. Especially cops who risked their lives every day, for next to nothing in the way of pay, and precious little thanks and respect from the communities they served. Especially when it seemed that people wanted, even _needed_ something to make themselves feel better. How bad could it be, really? And who were we to judge that someone snorting coke was a 'criminal' while someone who liked to toss back a few shots of JD, and inhale a little tobacco, was not?

"He had all kinds of studies and info. He pointed out that in New York City, that while forty percent of homicides were directly tied to the trading of illegal drugs, less than eight percent could be traced to the psychopharmacaological properties of the drugs. Alcohol, on the other hand, was involved in eighty percent of the homicides caused by drug use. So booze was more dangerous, even though it was legal.

"The truly innocent people were being killed by those under the influence of alcohol, not illegal drugs. Those the most negatively affected by coke were those involved in its trade, not its usage. People who were bad elements anyways. When you really looked at it, focusing all of that energy on fighting illegal drugs, when people were ruining their lives and killing themselves and others through the use of alcohol, was not only pointless, it was sanctimonious." Brass remembered sitting in the smokey bar with O'Toole and his buddies. Pretending to consider the other man's words. Seeming to allow his natural objections to be circumvented.

Cecilia considered the arguments and that small thread of logic that ran through them. It was scary, how rational it seemed to consider that cocaine was just another alternative to coffee and cigarettes and that no one was really hurt by it. "How cunning," she said quietly. "Don't just appeal to a man's greed, but to his morality."

"Yeah," Brass agreed. "So I let him convince me that by being on the inside, by being one of the guys in control, I could actually do some good for people. I could ensure that people weren't pushing at schools, or hanging around playgrounds, involving kids before they were old enough to know what they wanted and to make their own decisions. But adults, he said, should have a choice. It was practically guaranteed in the constitution, as far as he was concerned. By the time O'Toole was done he had me pumped up as a freakin' Lone Ranger. Martyr and saviour."

Jim continued. "Two weeks later, behind on my mortgage, bills piling up, Nancy on my case, I went to O'Toole and told him I'd give it a try." Brass could still see the knowing smile on O'Toole's face. "He was the liason, making the contacts for me. It took about six months to really work my way inside. I was surprised at how easy it was for Nancy to look the other way. On one hand, she sensed what I was getting into. On the other hand, the money was coming in, and our financial troubles were over, so she didn't ask too many questions. During that time, I did a lot of things that I'm not proud of. I had to break the law, to prove my loyalty. There were certain expectations of behaviour. There was a lot of drug use in the ranks. I wouldn't touch coke, but I did do pot, to fit in. There were...other things that I did, to put on a convincing act."

Cecilia watched as Jim stared down at his plate, seeming to struggle with himself for a moment, waging an internal debate. When he looked up at her again, there was a conviction in his dark eyes.

"I guess I'll just lay everything on the table. I really want to get to know you better, Cecilia, and I want you to know me. The real me. Not just the pretty stories and the things I'm proud of," Jim told her quietly. "Just remember that this was another lifetime ago, and different circumstances. For all intents and purposes, I was a different man."

Cecilia felt a nervous flutter, wondering what he was going to tell her next. Wondering if it might so negatively impact what she thought about him, that this would not only be their first date, but their last. She admired his desire to be honest and open with her, and appreciated the respect that it indicated, even as part of her wanted to tell him that some secrets might be best left buried. Because Cecilia didn't want anything to ruin the way she felt when she was with Jim Brass. But if this was something that he felt was important for her to know, to better understand what had been in his past and had helped shape the man he was today, then Cecilia knew that it was worth the risk of his telling her. Her mouth felt too dry to speak, so she only nodded.

"So, there was lots of drinking," Jim said lowering his voice. "Some drugs. Heavy partying. Lots of money to toss around. And there were always girls, beautiful and available." Cecilia sensed what was coming. "The first time, I was almost pass-out drunk. Not that that's an excuse. It was the first time I'd ever cheated on Nancy. The remorse hit me the next day, waking up in the motel with that woman in the bed beside me. I couldn't even remember her name." Jim wondered if Cecilia was of the school of thought '_once a cheater always a cheater'. _He wondered if she would politely thank him for breakfast, then just get up and walk out of his life. Or maybe hear him through, but any burgeoning feelings she'd had for him would be shattered, and this newfound closeness would melt away like an icecube on the strip in midday July. "But after that first time...it was easy to justify it to myself. It was just part of my job. I was playing a role. There was a higher purpose here. And anyways, my marriage was on a downward slide. Being in that deep kept me away from home a lot. When I was there, Nancy and I had nothing to say to one another, unless we were fighting. I figured there was no point in risking my life and my cover by clinging to some antiquated vows to a woman who lately couldn't even stand the sight of me.

"There were a lot of lines that blurred, I found, as time went on. After those first six months, I gained real confidences. They began to trust me. Gave me more responsibility in the organization. I made a trip down to Bolivia to see things for myself. About nintey percent of all the coca leaf in the world was found in the mountains of Bolivia and Peru. It was so much a part of the culture, moreso than I'd ever imagined. Hundreds of thousands of people made a living from coca farming. I went to Honduras a couple of times too, where they were still a big cultivator of pot, and where a lot of coke was still routed to and shipped from, slipped on board commercial flights during stopovers. About nine months after I'd first been approached by O'Toole, I took the scariest trip of my life, to Columbia."

Jim could still feel the sick worry that had plagued him the moment the plane had touched down in Columbia. It had been an entirely different world. Every single person he came into contact with was a potential danger to his life. One mistake, one misstep, and one of the heavily armed enforcers would have no problem putting a bullet in his skull, and dumping his body in jungle so dense he'd never be found. The men he met in that country were crueler than any of the others. Sharper. With flint-eyed gazes that seemed to look into a man's soul. Jim had said little, expressed no visible interest in anything around him, and stayed as much in the background as he could, while the mob guy he'd come down with did the negotiating with the local drug lord. All the while Jim dreaded that someone would smell his fear. Would sense the deception.

"It was quite an education, to see how it all worked with my own eyes. On the U.S. end, the Customs Service only had fourteen aircraft to try to stop an estimated eighteen thousand drug flights into the country each year. In eighty-two Reagan had created a cabinet-level task force, headed by VP George Bush, that combined the agents from the DEA, the FBI, the IRS, Customs, as well as the Army and Navy to try to fight drug trafficking in through South Florida. It was this group that Kraus and I were working with, while trying to clean up the corruption on our own force.

"The Atlantic City mob was working with the Medellin cartel. By eighty-two, there was an alliance between Pablo Escobar, Carlos Lehder, Jose Gacha and the Ochoa family, that formed the cartel. They ran most of the fifty or so cocaine labs that existed then in Columbia. In eighty-two, Escobar cut a deal with Manuel Noriega, allowing the cartel to ship cocaine through Panama. It happened to be the year, Escobar was elected to the Columbian congress by buying votes through building low-income housing in the slums.

"Also at about that same time, $100 million worth of cocaine, that's wholesale value, was seized at Miama International Airport. It was the first clue the task force had that Columbia's biggest drug traffickers were working together. That would later be confirmed in March of eighty-four when the DEA and Colombian police discovered Tranquilandia, a jumgle complex that included more than a dozen labs containing almost fourteen metric tons of cocaine. Later that year a Miami federal grand jury indicted Escobar, Lehder, Gacha and Jorge Ochoa on the strength of evidence gathered by DEA informant Barry Seal who had infiltrated the cartel."

"Some of this sounds familiar, from the news of the time," Cecilia mused, "but I never would have been able to put it all in context."

"It's different, I guess, when you live it," Brass reflected. "Then it's something you'll never forget. I actually met Seal when I was in Colombia, though at the time I didn't know who he was. Seal was assasinated in Louisiana by cartel gunmen, two years after the trial." Soberly he finished his breakfast, then laid his utensils on the plate and pushed it off to the side.

"So that's what was going on in the world in the bigger war. In the smaller war, I was still just a bit player. The DEA guys were interested in the drug angle, and I gave them what I could. The wild parties, the illegal stuff, all of that activity was during my time spent with the mob guys. While that was all evidence for the task force, for myself I was gathering evidence on O'Toole, the Chief and others in the force who had connections to the mob."

Jim's eyes were even darker with sorrowed shadow. "I was an outsider. The mob guys were always slightly suspicious because I'd once been a cop. All of my old friends wanted nothing to do with me. It just seemed natural for me to gravitate to the very guys that I was investigating. We had a lot in common afterall. They were PD, and though they were tied up with the mob, a lot of the time they were just plain cops most of the time, doing the same job that every other cop was. Except there were occasions when they looked the other way. When they made a quick phone call to warn someone that something was going down. But basically we spoke the same language. Had an understanding.

"When I mentioned that lines became blurred...it's hard to explain just what that meant. I knew that I had a job to do and that it was an important one. But when you're in that situation, living it day in, day out, and you get to know the people involved as individuals...sometimes it's hard to remember who the bad guys are and who the good guys are. Because even though they were dirty cops, they weren't mob. They didn't have any hands on with the drugs or any of the mob operations.

"They came to trust me, and to befriend me, and though I had to exploit that, there was a part of me that always hated myself for the deception. I knew _what_ they were, but I also got to know _who_ they were, and I found that it wasn't always easy to reconcile the two." Jim let that hang in the air, sipping the coffee, resting his vocal chords for a bit. He wasn't normally a chatty guy and couldn't remember the last time he'd monopolized a conversation this way. Talking about all of this now with Cecilia, even though he usually kept these memories buried, brought them all to the fore, where they taunted him.

"They'd treat me like a friend. I'd go to Sammy's house a lot. Sammy McCann, he was a lieutenant with ACPD. He'd have me over for bbqs, and I got to meet and spend time with his family. He had three kids, the nicest kids you'd ever want to meet. One of them, the youngest girl, Tania, had CF. With the money that Sammy was getting from the mob, he didn't buy a bigger house, or fancy clothes and fast cars. He used it so his wife Rose could quit work to take care of Tania. And he put it into pursuing different treatment options that he'd hear about from all over the globe, that were still experimental. And he made sure that kid had everything a child could want that money could buy."

Jim could hear Sammy's voice, telling him about the constant struggle to keep Tania healthy and comfortable. There had been the daily chest physiotherapy, involving vigorous massage to help loosen the sticky mucus that plagued the child's lungs. With every meal or even the smallest snack, Rose had to give her daughter capsules to supply the missing pancreatic enzymes to aid her digestive system. There were anti-asthma inhalers, vitamin supplements, medicines to help relieve the persistent contispation, and oxygen to help with the girl's breathing. Sammy's awe for his wife's strength in dealing with Tania's illness, and in his child's ability to take and give joy while fighting the horrible disease, and his diligent prayers that one day soon a cure would be found for cystic fibrosis, had impressed Jim.

"It was hard, to see him with those kids, and to see how much they worshipped him, and to see how much he loved them. It was painful to realize how much it broke his heart to know his little girl was on borrowed time. I had to keep reminding myself that what Sammy, Mike and the others were doing was _wrong. _That there was no way to justify it, and that dirty was dirty. They had a choice, and they chose to sell out. There were lots of hard luck stories out there, but other cops managed to keep their integrity.

"Still...I don't think I can ever explain how absolutely torn I was. These guys...they became my friends. Sammy, I knew, would give his life for mine." There were tears in Jim's eyes. He looked desperately at Cecilia, willing her to comprehend what it had been like. "I know how that sounds. And that anyone on the outside couldn't possibly ever understand. Hell, I don't understand it myself. They were criminals and they were breaking the law and their actions affected innocent lives. But when you're all caught up in the middle of it, your gut can get so twisted around, and you get so deep into the game, that you begin to lose your perspective."

Cecilia could see how difficult it was for Jim to share this story with her. To see the shine of the tears in his eyes, caused her own throat to go tight. She was wholly engrossed in the tale, sometimes thinking that it sounded like the plotline for a major motion picture that he was recounting for her, and finding it hard to remember that this was a true story, and that the detective had lived it. She would try to focus on imagining Jim Brass as a younger man, experiencing everything that he was telling her about now. Cecilia could see by the intense concentration on his face that this retelling was gut-wrenching, costing him far more than she could have imagined when she first asked her question. But she couldn't find the words to tell him to stop. He had to tell it, all of it, and Cecilia had to hear it.

"After the members of the Medellin cartel were indicted, the president's task force did a huge sweep across the nation. The DEA guys I'd been reporting to moved in on the mob. I had enough evidence to identify the corrupt cops on the force, and it was time for Kraus to crack things open. It all went down so fast. O'Toole, Sammy, the Chief and four other cops were arrested and charged.

"The mob was busy with troubles of their own, so they abandoned their boys, knowing the gig was up anyways. They weren't interested in me, I wasn't a threat to them and wouldn't be testifying on that end, so there was no need for protective custody. All seven cops were charged, and two made deals by turning state's evidence. O'Toole, Sammy, Chief Demato, and two sergeants, Fisk and Lang, all got hard time.

"I thought that it would be a relief when everything came out. I thought my name woud be cleared of the old suspicions. I knew I'd be reinstated. I guess I imagined I'd just walk back into the precinct and put my old uniform back on, and go back to work. I didn't envision any ticker parades but I wasn't prepared for the animosity. I was persona non grata. Even though no one liked the idea of a dirty cop, no one could quite accept the idea of turning your back on the brotherhood either and selling out your buddies. It had to be done, sure, but no one was going to forgive you for it."

Cecilia felt the anger surge to hear how the very people that Jim Brass had risked everything for, including his life, for the reputation of the department, and for all the men and women who worked there...had treated him so shabbily. The cruel unfairness of it had her clenching her hands in her lap.

He continued. "The trial was horrible. I'd give my evidence, and sit there on the witness stand, and every day Sammy would look at me with this sad dog look, like a stray just waiting to be kicked again. Like he couldn't believe what was happening, or that I'd been the one to stab him in the back. There was no sense of satisfaction for a job well done. I wasn't proud of myself. I wasn't ashamed either. I was just... I dunno. I didn't feel anything. Empty I guess.

"There was a big shake up. Lots of changes in the department. I was invited to Washington to get a presentation from the task force, but I never went. I just didn't feel like I deserved any kind of reward. I had done worse things than most of the things the other guys had done, that had ended them up in prison. Only because of which side I was on, it was okay for me.

"When Sammy was in his second year of prison, Tania died of the CF, after complications from a respiratory infection. He applied for a special pass on compassionate grounds, to get out temporarily for the funeral. But it was denied. The prison board decided that he was too big of a flight risk. And that with his mob connections, and the potential for their assisting in an escape, it would be too dangerous for any officials who accompanied him. I pleaded his case. Volunteered to accompany him and said I could handle it alone. But it was no use."

Cecilia watched the Adam's apple bob in Jim's throat as his voice became hoarse. His bottom lip trembled, and a muscle in his jaw jerked spasmodically. She could see the raw emotion in his dark eyes, and her heart ached for him. It took a few moments before the detective could resume speaking. "All I could think about what how much he loved that little girl, and how gentle he was with her, and how she thought he'd hung the moon. I thought about how hurt and confused she must have been when her daddy got put in prison. I heard it broke Sammy's heart not to be able to say good bye."

There were tears on Jim's cheeks, and he wiped at them with his right hand, automatically, not seeming to consciously realize they were there. "So even though I won in the end, I didn't really win. There was an overhaul on the force. Lots of changes were made. New people came in. Someone else was promoted to chief. The mayor gave me a key to the city. I was in uniform again, and the other guys respected the badge, but no one wanted anything to do with me. It's like I was invisible.

"Two years later, I transfered, thinking it might give me a fresh start. But there was no where I could go in Jersey, that my rep wouldn't follow me. Finally, I ended up in Vegas, drawn by the familiarity of another resort town and the bright lights and casinos. The geographical distance allowed for emotional distance and though what happened in Atlantic City got around, for the most part it didn't have a negative impact on my life and job here.

"And there you have it. That's the Jersey story. I can imagine how 'David and Goliath' Catherine made it sound...lone cop takes on corrupt force...but she doesn't know the whole of it. It's not really so heroic after all, is it?"

Jim tried to smile, but failed, and the pain in his crumpled features touched Cecilia's soul. She reached across the table and took his right hand, holding it firmly in her own. "I think it's very heroic," she said quietly, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "And brave and sad and incredible and unfair. I can't imagine being in that position." Despite how furiously she was blinking her smoky lashes, Cecilia felt the tears spill onto her bronze cheeks. "I'm so sorry. That I brought it up. That you had to go through all of that. Then and now." Her heart swelled with emotion. "I think you are an incredible man, Jim Brass."

Her words released him from the burden of his worry about how Cecilia would react to the truth of his past. Jim felt the crushing weight that had been compressing his lungs, lifted. He held tightly to her hand, the solidity of the connection helping to bring him back fully to the present and to leave old demons behind. "I'm not sorry that you brought it up," he said quietly. "I wanted you to know." _Because I think that you are pretty incredible, Cecilia Laval, and because you make me feel a way I thought I'd never feel again. And because I want to get this right._

Jim didn't release Cecilia's hand, instead holding it in his as he left money for their breakfast on the table, fumbling in his wallet with his other. He held her hand tightly when she bent to retrieve her purse. And when they left the restaurant, and walked out into the bright morning sunlight, he continued to hold it as they crossed the lot. She seemed content to let him do so, holding onto to him just as tightly in return.

When they got to her car, Jim's cell phone began to ring. He flipped it open, bringing it to his ear, his dark eyes holding hers warmly. "Brass," he said.

It was Gil. "Jim, it's me. I looked at that report, and just wanted to give you a quick call. I'm going home to catch a few hours sleep, then my flight to Reno leaves this evening. I know it's important to you so I wanted to talk to you before I leave."

"Look Gil, can I call you back in a few minutes?" Brass asked. Cecilia shook her head quickly and mouthed the words _'take the call'. _"Hold on," Brass amended. "It's okay. What's up?"

Cecilia slipped her hand from Jim's and walked slowly over to the boulevard where jasmine trailed a small fence, giving the detective some privacy while she inhaled the fragrant blooms.

"There's nothing there that sends up any red flags," Grissom was saying. "It's almost a text book case of careless smoking, compounded by improper use of a sleep aid. Dalmane is actually flurazepam, a commonly prescribed benzodiazepine derivative."

"Whatever that means," Brass replied.

Grissom continued. "It's a hypnotic agent. One of the positives about it and what makes it a good drug, is that it doesn't seem to decrease REM sleep, which is so important for our overall health. It does decrease sleep latency though, and the number of nightly wakenings, and results in increased total sleep time. Normally, it induces sleep within twenty minutes, and provides roughly eight hours of rest."

"And did you just know all of this off the top of your head?" Brass asked curiously.

"Kind of, but I looked it up, got a refresher," Gil answered. "The important thing is that flurazepam is rapidly absorbed from the gastrointestinal tract, and rapidly metabolized. It also takes up to one hundred hours to metabolite, so you get a cumulative effect with peak hypnotic results coming after a few nights of usage. The girlfriend confirmed that Keeth had been using it all week. Add the alcohol on top of that, and he would have been totally out shortly after taking the pills. If he hadn't been smoking he would just have had a nice long rest. Add cigarettes to the mix and you end up with a clear accidental death. Sadly one that would have been totally preventable.

"But everything checks out. The prescence and level of drug and alcohol in his system. The lack of accelerant. The fast burn of the foam of the sofa. They aren't even making furniture out of the stuff any more for just that reason," Grissom informed him. "There's nothing suspicious here at all, Jim. Not a single thing."

Brass was watching Cecilia cupping the white blossoms in her hand and lowering her face to them. She looked so lovely standing there. He pulled his attention back to the call. "Well, thanks for going over it for me," he told the scientist. "I guess that answers that. Maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my old age."

"Glad to help," Gil told him. "I'll see you when I get back."

"Have a good trip," Brass told him, then hung up the phone. "Cecilia," he called gently. She looked up at him, smiling and moved back to the car. "Look," Jim said, "pancakes wasn't what I originally had in mind. I'd like to take you out someplace nice. For dinner." He grinned at her. "Though I'm glad that we had this morning." She smiled. "I know Catherine's off Thursday night, so I figure you probably are too. I have the memorial service in Laughlin during the day. But would you do me the pleasure of joining me for dinner that evening?"

"I'd love too," Cecilia answered.

"I have to run into work for a couple of hours," Jim said regretfully, "and I'm sure you're probably tired. So I'll see you then. I'll pick you up at your place, around eight?"

"I look forward to it," Cecilia told him.

Jim reached for her hand again, this time taking one in each of his, holding them down between them. He squeezed them softly, then leaned in towards her. They were about the same height, and his forehead touched hers. They stood that way for a moment, their eyes closed. "Take care," he said.

Cecilia nodded, getting in behind the wheel. "Til Thursday."

Back at the lab, Grissom slipped the last of the reports into the outbox on his desk, then rose from his chair, grabbing his briefcase. Things were reasonably caught up for a few days. Catherine could deal with anything that needed immediate attention in his abscence. A sharp rap at the door made him look up. Sara stood there, outlined by the flourescent glow from the hall.

"Hey, Sara," Gil greeted with a smile. "You just caught me. What can I do for you."

There was something about the look on her face that set warning bells ringing inside his head. Sara crossed the room, her mouth in a grim line, her dark eyes cool, handing him the envelope.

"What's this?" he asked curiously.

"My resignation," Sara replied.

The laughter died on his lips when she didn't break immediately into a grin. Quickly he extracted the sheet of paper inside, and his blue eyes scanned the page. Ice water coursed through his intestines. "Two weeks?" he demanded hotly. "How am I supposed to replace you in two weeks? That's not very responsible, Sara!"

Sara was taken aback by his anger. That was all that he had to say to her? To bitch that he might not be able to hire someone else soon enough? "You've always said this is the best lab in the country," she reminded him tightly. "I'm sure if that's the case you'll have all kinds of applicants to choose from."

"Well, that doesn't mean they'll be ready to report to work within fourteen days!" Grissom insisted. "Interviews will have to be arranged. Whoever I get will want to give decent notice so that their current position can be filled, and they won't leave their team high and dry. Most people are a little more professional than that."

The implication made Sara furious. She grabbed the letter from his hands, and pen from the holder on his desk. Laying down the computer printed letter, she scratched off her final date of work, and extended it two additional weeks. "There," she said, thrusting it back at him. "You've got a month." Sara turned and stalked out of the room.

Gil held the piece of paper in his hand. He stared at it blankly. He had been totally unprepared for this. And the final line had been the one that had scared him, prompting his outburst. _C.C. Sheriff Brian Mobley._ This was no game. No joke. Sara was quitting. This wasn't like her request for a leave of abscence that time, where he had been able to change her mind. She had sent this exact same letter to the Sheriff. It was done. Sara Sidle was leaving.


	22. Chapter 22

_My apologies for the length of time between the previous chapter and this one. Real life rearing its ugly head again, lol. Nothing too serious, just busy, you know how it is. I'm glad to be back at it though and hope to be able to keep going with some regularity. Thanks for hanging in! Cathy._

Chapter 22

_I wonder who would come to my funeral? _Brass thought, as he sat stiffly on the chair in the third row, feeling hot inside the dark suit, despite the air conditioning, the tie feeling unusually constricting at his throat. It was a scorcher today. Even though it had been early in the morning when he'd stopped to pick up Catherine, the still, heavy air had heralded the fact that in this part of Nevada it was going to be the kind of day better spent at the pool. He shifted in his seat, taking in the sombre faces of the others who had made the journey to the funeral home to pay their respects. Both of Elliott's former wives were there. Charlene and Lynne. His grown sons, Elliott Jr. and Tyrone, and their wives.

_Would Nancy go? _Jim wondered. _Ellie?_ Would news of his passing phase them at all? Would it be sufficient reason to disrupt their lives and bring them all the way from New Jersey to say a final farewell? His brother, Peter, would be there, certainly, and Peter's family. And their mother. Catherine, he knew, seated next to him now, managing somehow to look fresh and unwilted. Gil...unless he had a conference? Would it be reason enough to cancel? Perhaps if Catherine insisted. There would be some of the cops from the force, some of the criminalists from CSI. Any of the guys from Atlantic City? Not likely. Annie, he hoped. There should be enough residual good feeling there even though he couldn't remember the last time they'd talked. And though he wasn't a social butterfly, Jim had made a few friends in Vegas.

_Stop! _he ordered himself. Enough of the ego-centric, maudlin musings. Today wasn't about him, it was about Elliott Keeth. Elliott, that big bear of a man, large, loud, with his booming, infectious laugh. Reduced to a pile of ashes, contained in a blue-gazed urn flanked by floral displays, on a lace-covered table at the front of the room. Elliott, who'd been thoughtful enough to make it easier on the mortician by beginning the cremation process himself, at home on his couch. Brass felt the anger at the senselessness of the man's death surge through him again.

That was the difference, he realized, between this memorial service and Denny Martens' funeral. Aside from the fact that Denny's church had been overflowing with the friends and family who mourned him, outnumbering the grieving here by at least five to one. Not that these things were a popularity contest, or that the quantity of mourners meant anything about the depth of people's feelings for you, or the kind of person you had been, necessarily. Some people were just a little more _involved_ in life though, coming into contact with a wider group of others. And Denny had been a devout church-goer, while Elliott had gotten away from his Baptist upbringing. The real difference between the two events, Brass thought, was the _mood. _

Denny's funeral had been a joyful celebration of his life. There was sorrow, and grief, and everyone had felt a personal sense of loss, but there had been an _acceptance_ of the situation. A coming to terms with his death. It had been a horrible, unanticipated accident, that had taken Denny's body, but not his spirit. It had almost been as though his _essence _had been there to comfort them, invoked by the masterful words of his brother-in-law, embodied in the eulogy. There had been no sense of Denny's death as being a _senseless _one, even though it had been accidental. Denny Martens had been in the _wrong place at the wrong time. _Through no fault of his own. Just one of those things.

But Elliott Keeth...Elliott had been responsible for his own demise. And though no one was coming right out and _saying _that, it was the elephant in the room. The thing that no one would acknowledge. And it pushed its wrinkled hindquarters against the mourners as they sat, and it lifted its enormous head and curled its grey trunk and trumpeted silently...an unheard cry that nonetheless blasted through the room. Bad choices, foolish decisions and deliberate actions had precipitated this tragedy. Elliott had died by his own hand, as surely as if he had put the business end of his service revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger with a beefy finger. Not that anyone thought of this as a suicide...no one believed that it had been his _intention_ to turn himself into a human ball of fire.

But it was impossible to deny that Keeth was still _responsible _for this tragedyAnd that realization hung over the assemblage, more stifling even than the hottest August day in Laughlin. They had all been _cheated_, and they knew it. And with that, came the anger that danced around the edges of their grief.

It was the funeral director that gave the main eulogy, drawing from the words and remembrances that those closest to Elliott had shared with him. He did a fine job, managing to impart a sense of who the deceased man had been. He was just a young man, or at least he appeared youthful, with a round, babyish face, and dark-rimmed glasses, and prematurely thinning brown hair. He reminded Brass, physically at least, of David, the assistant coroner. The man seemed to comprehend the delicate circumstances of this loss, and to project a genuine sympathy.

When he had finished, Keeth's youngest son, Tyrone, stood up, and took his place at the front of the room. It was one of life's ironies that the oldest boy, from Keeth's first marriage, had been named Elliott Jr., when it was the second son who bore such an uncanny resemblance to the father. He looked so much like Elliott, in fact, that for a surreal moment Brass could almost imagine him gesturing to the urn, winking at him, and saying in a deep, bass voice, _'He's dead, Jim'._

Catherine was glad that she had come to the service, out of respect and an old acquaintanceship with Elliott, but she found it difficult emotionally. Not that she had been so close to Keeth that his loss had affected her deep in her core, but because of the underlying sense of anger and frustration that swirled beneath the grief.

She had glanced surrepitiously at Elliott's ex-wives, wondering if they felt disconcertingly out of place, as she had at Eddie's funeral. They were both physically beautiful women, Charlene tall and slender, her skin a rich, dark, ebony, her long hair in braids, looking younger than Catherine knew she had to be. The other ex, Lynne, was small, petite, with high cheekbones and enormous brown velvet eyes that gazed out of ageless mocha features. They seemed to have a good relationship with one another, hugging at the door, clinging to one another for a moment, murmuring something between them.

Catherine had wondered how the girlfriend, Dana Asmundsen, felt about having the other women who had been important to Elliott here. She was a beautiful woman as well, a striking silvery blonde with shoulder length hair, and serene eyes the blue of gentian flowers. The figure beneath her black suit was trim. She was at least a decade younger than Keeth. Obviously Elliott had an eye for beauty, and all three of the women were stunning in their own way. Dana appeared to welcome the other women warmly, without jealousy or reservation. They had all loved Elliott Keeth at one time, and been loved by him, and were united in their loss.

Elliott's son Tyrone, not only looked, but sounded so much like his late father that Catherine found it almost eerie to observe him while he made a small speech. As his words drew to a close, he remarked that as per his father's wishes, his ashes would be spread later around the cabin he owned outside of Las Vegas.

After Brass and Catherine had expressed their condolences to the sons and Dana once more, they retreated to the air-conditioned sanctuary of Brass's sedan. "Did you feel it?" Catherine asked, as she clicked her seatbelt into place.

"Yeah," Jim responded, intuiting that Catherine was referring to the unacknowledged pachyderm again. He started the car, then sat for a few minutes, with the engine idling. Catherine waited, thinking that he was going to say something more. "Listen, I know we still have a long drive ahead of us, and that you're probably eager to get back home, but I was thinking...I'd like to swing by Keeth's apartment. Would you mind a little detour?"

Catherine's brow knitted as she looked at him curiously. "What's up, Jim?" She couldn't fathom why he would make such a seemingly macabre request.

He shrugged his shoulders beneath the suit jacket, turning up the air conditioning to maximum cooling. At some point during the memorial service he had been overcome with a _need_ to see the scene where Keeth had taken his last breaths. He couldn't explain why, even to himself. Everyone had assured him that Elliott's death was a tragic accident, nothing more, confirmed by the evidence. And as a former head of CSI Brass knew the mantra. _The evidence never lies._ And yet... If he'd been a more spiritual or superstitious man he almost might have convinced himself that Elliott's ghost was guiding him to delve a little bit further. Push a little bit harder.

"I guess...I just need to see it for myself."

Catherine considered that for a moment before nodding her understanding. "Sure. Linds will be in school for a few hours yet." She didn't know why this was important to Jim, or what he wanted to see or what he hoped to accomplish, but if it would give him some kind of closure, that was enough for her.

Brass gave her a crooked grin of gratitude, though his dark eyes were veiled. He recalled Keeth's address from the report...one of the things that helped make him a top detective was his formidable memory...and a quick stop at a service station to check a map of Laughlin, gave him the route. Shortly afterwards, he pulled into an empty spot in front of the apartment, shut off the motor, and stared up at the towering, white stucco facade of the building where Elliott Keeth had spent his last moments of life.

Catherine sat quietly in her seat. She was surprised when Brass removed his seatbelt and turned apolgetic eyes on her. "I'll just be a minute," he said, his voice strained.

"Well, I might as well come along too," Catherine stated. "Unless you'd rather I didn't?"

"Sure," he said automatically.

They approached the front of the building and passed through the sparkling glass doors into the lobby. A young woman with a baby in a stroller was just exiting, and Jim held the inner door open for her, while Catherine held the outer door. If the woman was concerned about security in the building, or the fact that the pair now had access, it didn't show in her demeanour, as she thanked them brightly for their help and went about her way.

The round buttons on the panel in the elevator indicated that there were eleven floors in the building. Keeth's apartment was on the third floor. Brass pushed the button and the elevator began to move with a rumble and a slight lurch, stopping moments later. The doors slid open onto a carpeted hall. Jim and Catherine stepped out, and the detective looked first one way then the other, before determining that apartment 305 was to their left. They hadn't spoken a word since departing the sedan. There was a tension, a heightened sense of expectation, that precluded conversation.

It was obvious which apartment had been Keeth's even before they were close enough to read the numbers on the door. Strips of yellow caution tape, cheerily bright, almost mockingly so under the circumstances, proclaimed that this was the site of the tragedy. The door had been battered in by the firefighters, and though it was pulled closed, there was no working lock and nothing to bar anyone who desired entrance. An acrid, scorched smell was still strong in the air. Brass reached forward, his hand seeming to move of its own volition, and his palm pushed against the steel.

"You can't go in there," a halting voice said.

Brass turned his head in the direction of the sound. The door to the unit at the end, the apartment facing the length of the hallway, was cracked open a few inches, just enough for him to make out the halo of white hair, one dark orb, and a gnarled, age-spotted hand that gripped around from the inside. He smiled his most charming smile, and said softly, gently, "I'm a police officer, Ma'am." He stood with his hands crossed at the wrists, trying to look his most unthreatening, stepping back a bit so that the woman could see Catherine as well. He hoped she wouldn't ask for ID, his badge was still on his bureau at home, though he did have his LVPD identification card in his wallet.

The door cracked open a bit further, and Brass could see more of the wrinkled visage of the unit's occupant. "A man died there," she said perfunctorily.

"I know," he said simply.

"He was a friend of ours," Catherine found herself saying, though this was Jim's gig.

"Burned up," the old woman said, shaking her head, her voice softening with sorrow. "He was a police officer too." Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "The police already came after it happened. The super says the apartment isn't safe. The tenants below that one, and on the floor above, they've had to leave. Til things get cleaned up and fixed up again."

Brass nodded, still smiling.

"You don't look like burglars," the woman said at length.

"No Ma'am," Jim agreed genially. "We're not burglars."

"Gladys," she told him. "We had a burglar here," she continued. She pushed the door the remainder of the way open, the guarded look slipping from her worn features, seeming to decide that the pair were harmless. Jim guessed her to be in her eighties, stooped from osteoporosis. She wore a thin, cotton housecoat that she pulled tighter around a shapeless dress.

"We're not going to be long," Jim reassured her. "You have a good day, Ma'am." He turned his attention away from her, readying to duck under the caution tape and to enter Keeth's apartment.

"Mr. Keeth, he was the one got robbed," she informed them.

Brass felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck. He stopped before he could step into the apartment. "When was this?" he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, though all of his senses were instantly alert, his thoughts racing as fast as his pulse.

"Few weeks. Month maybe. Robbing a police officer! I swear I don't know what this world is coming to."

"I agree, Ma'am. Gladys," he amended. Brass wondered if anything had been taken. Wondered if Keeth had filed a police report or an insurance claim. "Did anyone see the burglar? Were any other apartments broken into?"

"Not that I know of," she replied.

"Thanks. You take care." This time he pushed open the door and entered Elliott Keeth's apartment.

Brass reached for the light switch, but the power to the unit had been turned off, not suprisingly. There was enough midday light streaming through the front window which stretched the length of the livingroom, that interior lights would be superfluous anyhow. The first thing he saw was the charred remains of the sofa. The water and foam that had been used to extinguish the blaze had soaked into the carcass, and the heat of the desert summer had begun the proliferation of mold. Brass reached into his vest pocket, removed a grey, silk handkerchief and passed it back to Catherine. She was accustomed to the myriad of odours that accompanied scenes of death and destruction, but she wasn't working right now, and he hoped the faint scent of aftershave on the fabric square would give her a bit of a respite.

In his mind's eye, Brass imagined he was witnessing the conflagration, flames lapping at the comatose body of Keeth, shooting up to the ceiling where they'd eaten a hole through the drywall. This was a newer building, and Brass supposed that a firewall between floors might have helped protect the unsuspecting apartment dwellers above. For a moment, he imagined he could smell roasting human flesh...unfortunately he had enough real life experiences to draw from to lend a ghastly realism to his thoughts. His stomache spasmed and Brass swallowed back hot bile.

"This burned hot and fast," Catherine commented, her hand pressed to her nose and mouth, her words partially muffled by the handkerchief. She was dismayed at Brass's morbid insistence on not only coming to the apartment, but actually entering it. It was no longer a crime scene, but they still shouldn't be here. She knew that a clean up crew would be in before long, to remove the detritus and then a contractor to rewall and refloor and make the unit livable again. She was mildly suprised that it hadn't been done already, though she wasn't sure how long it had taken for the fire department to prepare its report and release the scene.

The damage was contained to that one area in the livingroom. Neighbours had been alerted early enough, the 911call made without hesitation, and the fire department had responded so swiftly and professionally that there was only this one surreal area of hell juxtaposed to the normalacy around it. Water-logged normalacy, perhaps, but the rest of the apartment was pretty much as it would have looked when Elliott stepped through the door at the end of the day.

Brass surveyed the apartment, or at least the portions of it that he could see from where he stood. The kitchen was on the left, and a hallway on the right would lead to the bedroom and bathroom. He tried to envision things as they would have looked before the fire, as an intruder come to steal would have seen them. As a cop, Jim knew that B&Es were the more frequently committed crimes. They happened all of the time, there was nothing unusual in the fact that shortly before his death, Keeth had been the victim of a burglary. It was just a coincidence. Just like the fact of his fiery immolation one scant month after Denny Martens had been mowed down by a hit-and-run driver.

Catherine battled feelings of guilt, telling herself that she was nothing like those voyeurs who gathered at the scenes of tragedy. She was here to support Jim, and he was here because...

Brass was stepping closer to the sofa. The floor below was scarred where red hot tongues of flame had lapped in eager anticipation, tasting, testing, ready to devour. The toe of his black, leather dress shoe pushed against an empty bottle of Crown Royal, rocking it, while a minute quantity of amber liquid sploshed inside the soot-covered glass. Hitching up the fabric of his pants, Brass squatted down, resting his arms across his knees. He regarded the bottle thoughtfully for a minute, the removed a ball point pen from an interior pocket of his jacket, stuck it through the neck of the bottle, and lifted it from the ground.

"Jim, what are you doin'?" Catherine finally had to ask. She was beginning to feel uneasy about being here. She didn't think Brass's preoccupation with Keeth's death this way, was healthy.

"Just thinking," he replied mildly. Brass knew that though it seemed unlikely that the elderly neighbour would have called the local police, there was a chance that she might have. Technically, they were trespassing, but Brass was confident enough that once identified, professional courtesy would allow them to circumvent that detail. Still, he was in no mood to hang around and explain why he was there. And what if they got some overzealous rookie who thought he'd be a hero and drag Brass and Catherine down to the station? Catherine had to get home to Lindsey. Not to mention, even the most understanding of cops might not think it was a good idea for Jim to remove anything from the apartment. "Catherine, mind if I get that handkerchief back?"

Catherine saw Brass reach a hand back expectantly. She knew that he wasn't merely being unchivalrous and wanting the fabric back for his own use, to help block the stench. It was clear that he had some interest in the empty bottle of whiskey. Wordlessly, she bent to press it against his palm.

Brass held the handkerchief over his right hand, took the bottle by the neck, slid the pen out and back into his pocket, and then rose to his feet again. "Okay, we're done here."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

As the lights came up, Gil Grissom gathered his notes, and stepped away from the lectern, barely aware of the applause his presentation had elicited. Ducking his head to avoid eye contact with anyone, he slipped behind the stage, paused only long enough to grab his briefcase, and then hurried through a back exit. He crossed the empty rotunda in his peculiar rolling gait, ahead of the crowd that had not yet streamed from the lecture hall. Pushing open the main doors, he escaped into the anonymity of the busy street, shouldered his way into the throng, and continued to put as much distance as he could between himself and any of his colleagues who might want to chat, or invite him for lunch, or otherwise engage him in socialization.

Eventually, he slowed, as he came upon a small city park. The emerald green splash of grass ended at a small, stone fountain, where cool waters bubbled in an eternal cycle. Spying an empty bench, he crossed the cement walk, then settled himself on the wooden slats. Only then did he pause long enough to open the briefcase and slide the notes from his lecture into one of the pockets, finally setting the case on the ground between his feet, and leaning back into his seat. Sighing, he closed his eyes for a moment, removed his wire-rimmed glassed and slipped them into the pocket of his shirt, then with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he massaged the bridge of his nose.

The migraine that had threatened to claim Gil since yesterday morning was still at bay...just barely. He'd popped the Imitrex tablets regularly since then, in an effort to thwart the onset of one of the episodes that had first begun to plague him in college. It was a bandaid measure, he knew. It was only a matter of time before the migraine won its battle and sought to ravage the inside of his skull. There had been a contest one time, by a pharmaceutical company, for creative migraine sufferers to submit artwork that depicted the pain of one of those episodes that the unitiated referred to uncomprehendingly as a 'headache'. One of the finalists had done a black and white drawing of a man, his features cinched in excruitiating pain, with a gun to his temple, while his brains splattered out the other side of his head. That, Gil had observed clinically, just about summed it up.

It was no coincidence that the onset of the warning signs of an impending migraine had started shortly after Sara Sidle had marched into his office and blindsided Gil with the presentation of her resignation. He had handled the whole situation badly, he knew. He'd been caught off guard, unprepared for the onslaught of thoughts and emotions that had descended on him with such suffocating swiftness. When Sara had trooped out of the office again, her eyes blazing with her fury and her disdain, her slender shoulders squared with animosity, he had been unable to do more than shove the letter in his desk, and head home.

Several times, since then and now, Gil had reached for his cell phone to call Sara. Once, he had even gone so far as to punch in her number on the speed dial, but after a single ring, he had snapped the phone shut. What could he possibly say to her? What did he even want to say to her? Her mind was evidently made up, she was unhappy at the lab and she wanted to leave. Not only was it not his place to try to talk her out of resigning, Gil was certain that he wouldn't be able to even if he tried. _Sara was leaving._

He opened his eyes again, watching the pigeons that strutted around the perimeter of the fountain, occasionally darting their heads towards the water, then tilting them back again, so the liquid could trickle down their throats. All birds drank in just such a manner, lacking the swallow reflex, letting gravity do its thing. The sun bounced off their grey plummage, reflecting the other colours hidden within. _Rats with wings, _Warrick Brown always referred to them derisively, and they could be a nuisance, Gil acknowledged. But there was also a simple beauty about them.

_Sara was leaving. _Gil recalled a conversation he'd had with Catherine one time. He had told her that his ultimate job as supervisor was to ensure that one day, one or more of his team would be qualified to take his place. She had asked him if he was going anywhere, and he had replied that you never knew. But that when he did leave the crime lab one day, there would be no cake in the breakroom. He'd just be gone.

She hadn't commented on that then, but two weeks later, in the middle of an experiment, she had rounded on him, her blue eyes accusing, and proclaimed. _"You are so selfish, Grissom!"_

Startled, he'd looked across the microscope at her, befuddled by what had brought this pronouncement on, wondering what horrible social misstep he'd taken now. He had just looked at her expectantly, knowing Catherine would clue him in, in good time.

_"How many years have we worked together? How much have we been through? Yet one day, you could just walk out of here without so much as a nice-to-know-you or a good-bye-have-a-nice-life!" _The indignant jut of her delicate jawline indicated her annoyance. She hadn't waited for him to respond. _"No cake in the breakroom indeed! We would just walk in one day, and find that you were gone." _Some of the tension had slipped from her then, and he had watched the hurt shadow her lovely eyes. _"I thought we were friends."_

He had spoken then, quietly, yet earnestly. _"We are."_

_"Yet you could just turn your back on that, on all of those years. On Rick and Nicky and Sara. On me. Because it's too much to expect that after always having your back, and even saving your life, you could take the time to have a goddamned piece of cake with me." _It was the first and only time she had referenced the incident where she had killed a man to preserve Grissom's life. They had not spoken of it before or since that reference. Her eyes had sparkled with unshed tears then, and her voice had trembled with the depth of her emotion. And as much as he had wanted to salve her unhappiness, Gil hadn't known how.

Catherine had continued. _"People need good byes, Gil...normal people...even if you don't. Even when they don't want to say good bye. Even when it's bittersweet. And even when it's down right painful."_

A muscle had begun to twitch involuntarily in his left jaw then. His ever observant CSI had noticed it right away. _"That's it, isn't it?" _Catherine had asked incredulously, her eyes widening. _"It's too painful. It's not that you're being selfish...it's that you're a coward." _This unflattering assumption of his character only caused the tempo of the twitch to increase. Her voice had softened. _"You can't run away from life, all of the time," _she had told him gently. And that had concluded the conversation.

Is that what Sara was doing? Running away from life? _Why would he think that? _Because...because...a thought hovered in his mind, and Gil pushed it back, refusing to consider it. Sara had her own life to live. She was an adult, capable of making her own decisions, and more than able to take care of herself. Her leaving the lab had nothing to do with _him_ surely. He wasn't the reason she was leaving, and...and even if he was...he could never be the reason for her to stay.

The emptiness of that observation knocked back the dam that had been containing his migraine, and as Gil felt the blood vessels in his temples constrict and throb, the nausea washed over him.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"I can't process that bottle at the lab, in any way," Catherine said regretfully, as Brass brought the car to a stop in front of the neat bungalow. He hadn't asked, in fact neither of them had spoken about it during the drive back to Las Vegas. They had left Keeth's apartment, stopped at a drive-thru for a quick burger, and then hopped onto the interstate. All conversation, what little of it there had been, had been about topics other than the memorial service, Elliott Keeth, the sidetrip to his apartment, or the whiskey bottle that Brass had retrieved. But it had been in the back of Catherine's mind the entire time.

"Yeah, I know," Brass told her, turning slightly in his seat, the right corner of his lips turning up in a brief smile.

Catherine had used the lab for personal reasons once already in her career, testing her blood against that of a figure of interest in one of her cases. An old family friend, and casino mogul, Sam Braun. Beginning to suspect that Braun was more than just an old flame of her mother's, Catherine's suspicions had been confirmed through a DNA test. But her impulsive move had come at a price. The case they had built against Braun for an old murder, had been thrown out, compromised by her actions. She had been lucky, she realized, not to have suffered some kind of disciplinary action, or even to have lost her job. Grissom had looked the other way, had protected her. But there was no way she could ever utilize the crime lab again for anything other than an active case. Not even for Jim Brass.

"Listen," she changed the subject, "why don't you join Lindsey and I for dinner? I took out a lasagna this morning. It was frozen, but homemade. I'm not a bad cook if I do say so myself, and I've got a couple of bottles of pinot noir, if you need something to help wash it down. You can start a salad while I go get Linds from school."

"Oh...well, thanks but uh, no not tonight thanks," Brass replied awkwardly. "I, uh, I've got plans already. Dinner plans. Thanks though."

For a moment, Catherine misinterpreted his unease, and wondered if the detective thought she was asking with anything more than friendship in mind. Then her eyes danced and she bit down on the inside of her lip to hold back a grin. "Okay then. Well, maybe I'll give Cecilia a call. See what she's up to tonight. I bet she'd love to get out of the apartment, maybe have a little girl time. What do you think?" Catherine turned to Brass brightly.

"Well, I, uh..." he stumbled over the words, drawing them out uncertainly.

"Unless of course she already _has_ plans," Catherine teased. She watched with amusement as the gruff detective's cheeks reddened. "My, my," she continued, shaking her head and chuckling. "I do believe you have a date tonight with Cecilia. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Get out of my car," Brass scolded, then smiled at the blonde sheepishly.

Catherine laughed aloud then. As she reached to unbuckle, Jim was out of the car and around to get her door. She stepped out, grinning widely, the unhappiness and uneasiness of the day melting away. "Thanks for the ride to Laughlin, I do feel good about going."

"Thank you for the company." Brass closed the door and Catherine started up the walk to the cheery, red front door, flanked by cast iron urns that spilled over with a profusion of colourful blooms. He crossed back behind the car to the driver's side and was opening his door again, when her voice halted him.

"Hey!"

He looked over the top of the vehicle at her.

"You go, Jim!" Catherine winked and gave him a thumbs up.


	23. Chapter 23

_Thank you for continuing to read this story, and for your kind reviews. Here finally is 'the date'. I hope that it meets expectations. Cathy._

"This place is wonderful. Just amazing," Cecilia said in awe, as she took a forkful of her escargots appetizer, and looked around the restaurant. Jim beamed at her pleasure.

The Poseidon was, naturally enough, a seafood restaurant. What made it different and unique was that they had forgone the predictable lobster trap, anchor and fishing net decor. The only real ornamentation, actually, was a giant mural that encompassed the entire restaurant. Rather than the standard four straight walls, the interior of the Poseidon was a series of smooth curves, wending around the exterior of the room, meeting above in a domed ceiling that sparkled with a multitude of recessed lights, reminiscent of stars in a night sky.

The mural depicted an underwater panorama. An ocean teeming with marine life. Schools of fish darted amongst coral and beds of kelp, slipping past the diners. Here and there a dolphin dove, or a jellyfish floated on an unseen current. The realism of the painted images, and the way the talented artist had made them appear three dimensional, as not just pictures, but living creatures, was phenomenal. The sense of movement in this masterful trompe l'oeil almost convinced Cecilia that they were actually submerged beneath watery depths.

Every time she looked around, her eye was drawn to something it had missed the first time. The subtle shadowy form in the background to her left, that proved to be a life-sized orca, actually gave her a start when she finally noticed it. How easy it was to imagine that they were dining under a glass dome in some distant sea, and not actually in the midst of a dry, Nevada desert during one of Las Vegas' worst heat waves.

The plush carpet beneath their feet was dark blue, as were the tables, upholstered chairs and linens, making them recede so that the mural took centre stage. Lighting was indirect, so as not to distract from the marine illusion. Each table held a candle ensconced in a blue glass jar, which flickered softly, casting flattering shadow in the intimate space.

Playing faintly in the background was a musical composition of orchestral delight interspersed with whale song. The haunting calls of the great humpbacks stirred Cecilia and made the hair on her arms stand on end.

Jim was thrilled with her obvious delight. When he had asked her to dinner, wanting to take her somewhere special, there had been only one locale in Vegas that he thought would truly qualify. The subdued lighting caught blue-black highlights in her long, dark hair, and cast enchanting shadows on her tanned features. Her dark eyes glowed with wonder and enjoyment.

The truth was that Jim hadn't really thought much about their date during the day. Preoccupied with the funeral, it wasn't until he had dropped Catherine off at her place, and she had innocently invited him to stay for dinner, that his anticipation had begun to build. Jim had been chagrined that his lack of composure had lead Catherine to so easily deduce that he had asked Cecilia out this evening. Once she had though, teasing him lightly, Jim had found himself eager to be with the writer again.

He had showered and changed, watching the clock until it was time to pick Cecilia up at her apartment. A shot of the Chivas over ice had done nothing to calm his nerves. Jim couldn't remember the last time he had looked forward to something with such unrestrained zeal. His life had become predictable, his enthusiasm for anything outside of his job, negligible. But when he had lifted his hand to knock on the blue door, promptly at eight o'clock, Jim Brass had felt alive in a way that he hadn't felt for longer than he could remember.

Cecilia looked at Jim across the table, thinking how relaxed and happy he looked. The deep crevices that cross-sected his brow seemed smoother this evening. The smile that played about his lips was genuine and engaging. He looked wonderful in the indigo linen shirt, and similarly coloured tie, and the well-tailored black trousers.

She had decided on the black dress that she had worn to the Kellerman's dinner party. Even though Jim had seen her in it already, Cecilia knew that she would be hard pressed to find anything as flattering, or that made her feel as good when she was wearing it. When she had opened the door for him earlier that evening, the open admiration in the gaze that had swept her from head to toe, had given her confidence in her choice.

"I'm glad you like it," Jim responded. "And they have the best chef in all of Clark County, if you ask me." He delved into his bacon-wrapped scallops and nodded with satisfaction to confirm his assessment.

Later, after the entrees were placed on the table, New York striploin and rock lobster tail for Jim, and a chef's special shrimp and scallop pasta in a garlic wine sauce for Cecilia, Jim refilled her glass of chardonnay. "So what do you like to do for fun, Cecilia?" he asked her.

"Writing, even though it's my career now," she began. "I've always written for pleasure as well. Short stories. Poetry. Now and then I'll even do some fan fiction, when the mood strikes me." She gave a sheepish chuckle.

"Fan fiction?" he repeated curiously, smiling at her over his glass.

"There are whole internet communities where people who share a common love and interest...in a particular movie, television series, or even a published novel or book series...create their own stories based on the existing characters and often spun off of existing plotlines. Fiction created by and for fans." Cecilia smiled. "Anyone who wants to participate can. The quality of the writing is often quite amazing, and it's interesting to see fictional characters, created by someone else, brought so vividly to life by others who love them and sometimes almost seem to _know_ them better than their creators."

"I've never heard of that," Jim admitted. He wasn't sure why someone would want to do that, and considered it for a moment. "So, say, if someone was a big Star Trek fan, they could resurrect Kirk, Spock and Bones and have then jaunting about the galaxy having unending adventures. Create new episdoes, in a way."

"Exactly, " Cecilia agreed. "Star Trek, actually, has one of the largest fan fiction followings."

"Hmmm. I can see where that might be kind of interesting," Jim acknowledged. "So...what do you write?" he queried with a grin.

"There was an old television western in the sixties, my favourite show when I was a child, called 'The Big Valley'. Centred around the Barkley family of Stockton, California. That's who I bring back to life," Cecilia admitted.

"Oh yeah, yeah," Jim remembered the show, though vaguely. He'd seen reruns advertised on the western channel. "Barbara Stanwyck, and the Six Million Dollar Man."

Cecilia laughed. "Lee Majors. Yes, that's the one. Anyhow, that's one of my guilty pleasures. I belong to an internet club with other fans and we post our stories there. It's just for fun, there's no charge to either share stories or read those of others." She sipped her wine. "Whatever someone's fan fiction interest, there is probably at least a small group of other people who share it."

"I guess that's my something new to learn for the day," Jim smiled at her. "And when you're not writing for profit or fun, what kinds of things do you do?"

Cecilia told him about some of her other interests. She loved to go to garage sales, thrift stores and flea markets, searching for good deals and reasonably priced collectibles. She enjoyed crafting. And she was a big fan of Nascar, which surprised Jim for some reason.

"I worked a case a few years back," he remarked, "out at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway. The Cup drivers were in town. There was an attempted kidnapping, the kid of one of the drivers. Luckily they didn't get him. Turned out it was a local guy, working in cahoots with someone on one of the other pit crews. I'd never really paid too much attention to Nascar, just figured, like so many, that there couldn't possibly be anything worthwhile in guys driving around in circles."

Cecilia smiled, having heard that same thing many times from others who couldn't understand her devotion to the sport.

"Anyhow, the dad of the kid invited a few of us to come for that Sunday's race, and since I was off and had nothing else to do, I went. They gave us what they called 'hot passes', so we could get behind the scenes. I was actually pretty impressed with how much there was to it. With the professionalism and decency of the drivers. And the whole sport wasn't some hokey redneck thing, but big money with a really diverse group of fans." Cecilia nodded. "I was able to meet many of the drivers and car owners. Most I didn't really have any clue at the time as to who they were. But I'd heard of Dale Earnhardt. I got to meet him briefly. He died the next year."

"February, 2001. The Daytona 500," Cecilia said somberly.

"Being there, and seeing a race live, sparked my interest," Jim admitted. "I'm not a hard core fan, but I enjoy watching it when I can, and know most of the drivers now. I like Mark Martin, and Ryan Newman."

"I'm a Ricky Rudd fan, myself," Cecilia confided.

They spoke for a while about racing, the conversation leisurely, consuming their dinners which Cecilia had to admit were incredible. When the topic had petered out, she turned the discussion to that things that Jim Brass liked to do, and inquired about his hobbies.

"Well, since I gave up that whole exotic dancing thing," he began with a wink, referring to his joke at their previous dinner with Catherine and Gil, "I turned to hockey. There's actually an ice rink in Las Vegas, believe it or not, and a group of cops rent some ice time and play once a week, a couple of months a year. I played alot of hockey growing up in Jersey. For a while when I was a kid I wanted to be pro, but I wasn't big enough or fast enough, so I had to fall back on plan B, which was to be a cop like my old man." Jim smiled a fond remembrance of his father. "I used to play a little darts at one of the pubs off strip, but haven't in a while." Jim paused, realizing that there wasn't much to add, and imagined how boring he sounded. "I guess that's about it. The job is pretty consuming."

Cecilia nodded her understanding. She loved listening to Jim's deep voice. She was acutely aware of him physically. Being here with him stirred thoughts and emotions that both frightened and thrilled her.

"One thing I always thought I'd like to do," Jim was sharing now, "was to be a foster parent. But being in this line of work just isn't very conducive to a structered, stable homelife for a kid." He gazed reflectively at the candle. "I know I was a lousy dad to Ellie, and I probably don't deserve to ever have that kind of influence in a kid's life again," he commented sorrowfully. "I always kinda wished though...that I could get an opportunity to make things right. It was too late with Ellie. But maybe...maybe I could help a kid whose own parents had let them down, or who just didn't have anyone. A second chance for both of us.

"I guess I figured, I don't know, that I'd learned something from my mistakes. And I see so many kids all the time through work, kids who are great kids, and they just need somebody." Jim shrugged helplessly. "But I knew that my life just wasn't what a kid would need. Long hours. Pulling double shifts all the time. I used to think...one day, maybe I'd remarry. Have something stable. Someone to make a real home with. And then I'd adopt one or two of those kids. Older kids, the ones that are hard to place."

Suddenly, Jim felt an overpowering craving for a cigarette. What the heck was he yammering on about? He'd never shared these dreams with anyone before. They were just wild musings, never going to come to fruition. It was ridiculous to even imagine himself worthy of being entrusted with the care of another child, after he'd screwed up his own kid so badly. Surely Cecilia was thinking the same thing.

Instead, she reached across the table, took his hand and gave him a poignant smile. "You have a good heart, Captain," she said softly, shyly. Cecilia knew that in her own dreams of motherhood, she had always concentrated on attaining that biologically, thinking that if she didn't become pregnant with a child of her own, that parenthood would always be denied to her. She had never really given much thought to adoption, especially of an older child. She knew that it was indicative of a caring soul, and a great deal of love to share, that Jim Brass had.

Jim stared back at Cecilia for a moment, wondering if she was either subtly making fun of him, or giving false praise and platitudes. But the warmth in her dark eyes was sincere. And the truth was that he didn't think her capable of doing either. Somehow...some way...this lovely, decent woman saw good in him. And somehow...she helped him to believe in the good in himself. Just being with her made him _want_ to be the kind of man Cecilia seemed to glimpse buried beneath the cynicism, the sarcasm and a lifetime of mistakes. He looked at her now, feeling something stir in his soul, and he squeezed her hand. He opened his mouth to give voice to the thoughts. And then Jim Brass remembered that all of this was borrowed time. One day...only a matter of weeks perhaps...Cecilia would be going back to her real life. And everyone knew..._what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. _So instead, he pursed his lips in a tight smile, withdrew his hand, and busied himself refilling their wine glasses.

Cecilia had thought that Jim was going to say something more, but the moment passed, and then he was pouring their wine. She wondered if she had embarassed him or been too presumptuous and made him uncomfortable.

Deftly, he turned the topic to her recent vacation to South Carolina and she shared with him the beauty of the resort town of Hilton Head Island, and her jaunt one day to nearby Savannah, Georgia. Cecilia had fallen in love with that city, taking a trolley tour of the historical squares, disembarking at various points to walk around, admiring the decorative ironwork, and imagining the ghosts of Civil War soldiers and southern debutantes in elaborate dress. As she spoke, Cecilia watched Jim relax again, and their earlier intimacy was recaptured.

When their waiter returned to inquire about dessert orders, Cecilia protested that she was far too full from her exceptional meal, and Jim had echoed her sentiments. Shortly afterwards, Cecilia watched the detective smile at something or someone over her shoulder, and begin to rise from his chair, as a masculine voice hailed him.

"Jim Brass!" The man was extending his arm, shaking Jim's hand enthusiastically. Cecilia looked up into the pleasant olive visage of a middle-aged man with curly, salt and pepper hair and dark eyes. He wore a black dinner jacket over a crisp white apron and white pants.

"Tony," Jim was grinning, clapping the other man on the shoulder before resuming his seat. "Cecilia, this is Tony Scrivo, an old friend, and owner and head chef of this fine establishment. Tony, this is Cecilia Laval."

Tony took Cecilia's hand and bent over it, touching his lips to the back of it. _"Bella," _he said galllantly. Then the man turned his attention back to the detective. "I'm sorry I couldn't greet you earlier, we've had a busy night, though it's getting late and the meal orders are tapering off. I was happy to hear you'd called the other night and reserved a table. It's been too long, my friend." Jim nodded his agreement. "You'll have to come to the house for a barbecue soon, and we can have some espresso and play a little bocce." Tony Scrivo nodded his head emphatically at his own suggestion. "I understand that neither of you are having any dessert," he continued, crooking a dark brow. "Our pastry and dessert chef is the best in the state!" he proclaimed proudly.

"Too full," Jim pronounced, patting his stomache. "Besides, I've got a department physical coming up. Don't want to compromise this physique." He winked up at the chef.

"Dinner was superb," Cecilia added her praise. "The sauce on the pasta dish was delicious."

"Thank you. Tell you what," Tony said, "I'll pack up a couple of desserts to go, compliments of the house. Enrique will bring them out before you leave."

"Thanks, Tony," Jim replied, knowing it would be pointless to argue.

"You have a beautiful place here," Cecilia was saying. "I've never seen anything like it. It makes for such a memorable dining experience."

Tony inclined his head, accepting the praise. "Thank you, _Bella. _A very talented architect, designer and artist brought this dream out of my head and made it real," he told her proudly. Then to Jim, "Good to see you again. Don't be a stranger." Then the chef was retreating back to his kitchen.

"I met Tony when he was a head chef at the Bellagio," Jim explained. "I was working a case not long after I first came to Vegas. One of the sous chefs poisoned another, a professional rivalry thing gone to the extreme. Guy pulled through, luckily. Tony and I just hit it off, and we stayed in touch afterwards. A few years ago, he and a partner opened this place. They've been doing really well. Tony is a great guy. He and his wife Maria have a little house in the hills."

Cecilia didn't want the evening to come to an end. She was surprised when she glanced at her watch and saw that it was already past one. Jim had already settled the cheque with his credit card, and the promised desserts sat in a white, ribbon-wrapped box at the edge of the table.

"I suppose we should get going," Jim suggested, noting that Cecilia had checked the time and thinking that she might be ready to leave. If it had been up to him, he could have sat there all night, listening to the sultry tones of her voice, learning more about her. His eyes tracing the claret curves of her full, sensuous lips, while he wondered what they would taste like beneath his.

"All right," Cecilia agreed.

Jim thought...hoped...that he detected a reluctance in her tone. Perhaps he'd misread her glance at her watch, and Cecilia wasn't quite ready for the evening to end either. He picked up the dessert box, then took her elbow with his other hand, and guided her out of the restaurant.

When Jim stopped at the car, and unlocked her door, holding it open for Cecilia, her body brushed against his. The heat was immediate and intense. He wanted to pull her against him, to slide his arms around her and crush her to his chest, and to press his lips on hers in the kiss that he had been thinking about since last Saturday night. But he had the box in one hand, and before he could think to set it on the hood, or even just drop it to the ground, Cecilia was already settling into the interior of the sedan. The blood pounded in Jim's ears and his arms ached with disappointment, as he went around to the driver's side.

The tension inside the car was palpable. Cecilia held her breath when Jim got into his seat, wondering if he would lean across and kiss her. She wanted nothing more, but couldn't think how to communicate that. She'd been on enough dates in her lifetime, had had enough relationships, both casual and meaningful, to know that the attraction was mutual. She knew that she had initiated romantic interludes in the past. And yet...when it came to Jim Brass, Cecilia felt like a virginal school girl, unsure and unititiated in the ways of men and women.

Jim was barely aware of the things they spoke about during the drive back to Cecilia's apartment. He knew he was participating, he could hear his own voice, and apparently he was making sense because Cecilia didn't seem aware that there was anything out of the ordinary. But his mind was churning, and the blood rushed through his veins, and all Jim could focus on was how close her body was to his in the close confines of the car.

When they were only a couple of blocks away from Cecilia's apartment, Jim finally marshalled his thoughts and mustered the courage to make his move. He made his living reading people, and if he was reading Cecilia Laval correctly, his interest in her was reciprocated. Jim knew that he couldn't go another night wondering whether or not she saw him as anything more than a nice guy.

"I think I've started to digest that dinner," he began, "and the idea of trying out that dessert with a cup of coffee seems appealing. Would you like to come back to my place and see what delights Tony put together for us? Maybe have a night cap?" Jim tried to sound nonchalant, as though it didn't really matter to him either way. But he held his breath as he awaited Cecilia's response.

"I'd like that very much," she replied huskily.

The detective's place turned out to be an expansive loft condominium, with high ceilings, hardwood floors throughout, and exposed brick walls. While the furniture and decor was minimal, there was nonetheless a warmth and a charm that Cecilia hadn't expected from a bachelor's apartment. Jim lead her first to the floor to ceiling window at the far end of the livingroom, where she could admire the sparkle and glow of the strip in the distance. Millions of bulbs lit up the night, the electricity supplied by nearby Hoover Dam. Cecilia wondered idly what it cost to keep the hotels and casinos in their mantle of neon glow.

"I'll put this in the kitchen," Jim told her. "I'll be back in a sec."

The sofa and loveseat were large, overstuffed pieces of dark chocolate leather. One wall held a cherry wood entertainment centre, with a large screen television, and a fairly elaborate stereo system. There was a five by seven photo on one shelf of Jim and a familiar looking figure, suited up in hockey gear. She picked it up and read the autograph to confirm.

"Wayne Gretzky was in town a couple years ago, with a group of NHL old-timer all-stars, doing a benefit game. They played a team from the department. It was a lot of fun, and even though we were terribly outclassed, we held our own," Jim reminisced. "They only beat us ten to three." He laughed. "Gretzky posed for photos afterwards, and then signed them. He was a nice guy, real down to earth."

"Well you just rub elbows with all of the rich and famous, don't you?" Cecilia smiled, teasing gently.

"Yeah. You hang around Las Vegas long enough, you're bound to," Jim smiled back. "So, would you like coffee or something stronger?" Jim found himself full of nervous energy, now that Cecilia was actually here and in his apartment. When she'd agreed to accompany him back to his place, it was all he could do not to let out a juvenile whoop of joy.

"Coffee, please," Cecilia requested.

"Have a seat," Jim suggested, then retreated to the kitchen.

Cecilia stood in the livingroom uncertainly for a few moments, then decided to follow him to what turned out to be a spacious kitchen. The area was neat and clean, the counters a grey-green granite beneath cherry cupboards. Jim looked over his shoulder at her with faint surprise, as he measured ground coffee into the filter. He had removed his tie, and unbuttoned the top couple of buttons of the linen shirt.

"I have no idea what's in there," he admitted, nodding to the box on the island opposite him. "Take a look."

Cecilia moved to the island, her back to Jim as she took the ends of the ribbon in each hand and gave a gentle tug. She felt him move behind her, as the bow came loose and the ribbon dropped away. He didn't say anything, but his fingers brushed the hair from the back of her neck, and then Cecilia felt Jim's lips on her skin. Her knees felt weak, and she gripped the edges of the counter for support, closing her eyes, biting back a groan as her head dipped. Then his hands were on her hips turning her gently towards him so that their torsos were pressed against one another.

Cecilia opened her eyes long enough to see the fire in Jim's, and then closed them again as his mouth descended to claim hers. His breath was hot against hers, his lips moving with masterful pressure. Cecilia slid her arms around him, her hands moving over the fabric on his back. He parted her lips with his tongue, his own seeking hers. Touching. Tasting. It circled hers, probing the cavern of her mouth. Cecilia pressed her body tighter against Jim's, her fingers kneading the flesh of his back. Their tongues parried and thrust in an ancient, primal dance, and Jim moaned against her mouth.

His hands travelled from Cecilia's waist, up the length of her ribcage, his thumbs reaching between their bodies to caress her through the thin material of her dress, eliciting a gasp of pleasure. When Jim's mouth left hers, Cecilia almost cried out her disappointment, but then his lips were brushing against the skin of her jawline, down across her throat, nibbling a trail that she was sure would leave a brand. His tongue found the soft hollow of her throat, dipping there, pressing against the throbbing of her pulse.

He bent his head lower, his kisses roving over the expanse of skin that swelled above the neckline of Cecilia's dress. Her hands travelled to the back of his head, her fingers parting his short hair, massaging Jim's scalp, while she dropped her own head to kiss the top of his. Then his mouth was on hers again, his breathing heavy, his hands roaming over her with an increased urgency. Her own hands explored his body, and Jim trembled as she felt his need.

_"You are so beautiful," _he spoke at last, murmuring against the corner of Cecilia's mouth. _"I want you so much."_

Cecilia arched her back, pushing her body even tighter against his. Her body ached and throbbed with her desire for him, every nerve on fire. _"Yes," _was all she could manage to say, in a barely audible whoosh of air, while she clung to him. Cecilia was only peripherally aware when he began to move her out of the kitchen. Jim had his arms wrapped solidly around her at her waist, and his lips never left hers, as he gradually shuffled out of the kitchen, and towards his bedroom. His thighs pushed against hers, and they inched across the apartment.

When Jim eased her onto the bed, Cecilia opened her eyes once more. His face was poised above hers. She began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, and then he was helping her, shrugging out of it. In the moonlight that dappled through the bedroom window, Cecilia could see the dark hairs scattered across his chest. And something else...a scar, high on his left shoulder, where a bullet had pierced Jim's flesh all those years ago. Cecilia touched it hesitantly with her fingers, as though afraid that it still held the memory of long ago pain, then she kissed the silvered, puckered flesh.

Jim's hands were working with single-minded urgency, tugging at the zipper of Cecilia's dress. She wasn't even sure of the exact moment it happened, but soon they were both naked, on the cottony soft duvet of Jim Brass's king -sized bed. Cecilia's body rippled with gooseflesh, and she heard herself whimper with the intensity of her need. Jim was kissing, stroking and caressing her with such skill that she twisted beneath him with desperate longing.

Then he was hovering above Cecilia waiting, taking his direction from her. _"Are you sure?" _Cecilia couldn't have testified with any certainty afterwards whether Jim had actually spoken the words, or whether she had just read them in the questioning depths of his dark eyes. But her answer was to reach for him, and pull him towards her, as her body welcomed his.

Later, stretched beneath the covers, Jim held Cecilia in his arms and listened to her rhythmic breathing. Her long, raven hair tumbled across his pillow and fell softly against his chest. In the moonlight she looked so young, and peaceful, her smoky lashes sweeping across her bronzed cheeks. Her lips, as rich as the finest bordeaux, were slightly parted, and her breath was warm against him. She was all softness and womanly curves, and she smelled intoxicatingly feminine and exotic. There was a vulnerability to Cecilia in repose, that plucked at Jim's heartstrings.

She had been incredible. They had been great together, he acknowledged. Seeming to possess an innate sense of what the other wanted and needed. Cecilia was passionate and uninhibited and Jim knew that he had pleased her as much as she had pleased him. Having her curled against him now was the culmination of his desires. Being with her just felt so _right._

So why then was there a heaviness in his chest? Why couldn't Jim just sleep, basking in the afterglow of their lovemaking? The truth danced around the edges of his brain, and though he tried to banish it, not wanting anything to spoil the wonder of this night, he couldn't. The truth was that this wasn't just physical. Jim was falling for Cecilia Laval. And the heartache that he had guarded against for so long could only be right around the corner if he didn't separate the one from the other and realize that this was nothing more than an enjoyable fling.

_Because what happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas._


	24. Chapter 24

_Thank you for your kind reviews, they are very much appreciated. This story might not have a large following, but those who are reading and sharing your thoughts, make up for that with the generosity and scope of your comments. Sadly, the 'Poseidon' exists only in my dreams. Thank you and take care, and happy reading, I hope! Cathy_

"I don't know, man," Warrick Brown was saying, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Something just doesn't sit right about this case." His steady, green-eyed gaze fixed on Nick Stokes, seated across the table.

Nick scooped a handful of popcorn, chewing it thoughtftully, while his own dark eyes regarded the other CSI. Finally, he inclined his head in deference to the other man's suspicions. "Yeah. It's just a little too pat. And then there's their reactions, the husband and the wife. I mean, they seem to be saying all the right things..." Nick's voice trailed off.

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. But have you seen the way they look at one another sometimes, when they think no one is looking?"

"Almost disdainful. Angry, sort of." Nick offered the popcorn to Warrick, who dipped into the bag.

The previous night, the pair had been called out to an attempted break and enter. The homeowners had found an armed intruder in the main level of their house. There had been an ensuing confrontation during which the husband, Jake Hatcher, had shot and killed the burglar. Jake Hatcher was one of the partners at Evans-Hatcher Incorporated, a local building and architectural firm. The couple lived in the prestigious Lakes area. The home's security system had been disabled the night of the incident, and it wasn't until Emily Hatcher's 911 call that police had been alerted to the scene.

The intruder had received three gunshot wounds, the second of which penetrated the heart and was the official cause of death. The deceased was identified from his prints as Len Rushton, a small time local crook, who was known to Las Vegas police.

Jake Hatcher's 9mm was registered and legal. Hatcher claimed that he had feared for his safety, and the life of his wife and had shot Rushton in self-defense. On the surface, it seemed an open and shut case, and at this point, according to Vega, the detective working the case, the D.A. did not seem inclined to press charges against the homeowner.

"And then there's that security system," Warrick continued. "Some pretty high tech stuff to circumvent for a small player like Rushton."

"I agree, there's nothing in his rap sheet to indicate he had those kinds of skills. But who knows, thanks to the wonder of the internet these days, it wouldn't surprise me if he downloaded the way to disable the security system off some website." Nick shook his head.

"Good evening, gentlemen," a cheery voice interrupted their conversation, as swing shift supervisor Helen Chang breezed into the breakroom. A perpetual smile beamed from her lovely Asian features.

"You're working late," Warrick remarked.

Helen bent before the small fridge, removing a can of diet Coke. Leaning back against the bank of cupboards, she popped the tab and took a grateful swig before replying. "Yes. Jennifer was pretty ticked. She said she's beginning to forget what I look like." Helen sighed. "Oh, hey, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry to hear that Sara's leaving. That came as a bit of a surprise. She's a good CSI, she'll be missed."

The two men exchanged a puzzled glance. "Say what?" Nick queried, swivelling in his chair to face Helen.

She looked at him in confusion. She had learned of Sara Sidle's resignation from Sheriff Mobley himself. Was it possible that Stokes and Brown were not aware yet that Sara had quit? Helen averted her eyes. "I'm sorry. Maybe I've misunderstood," she mumbled, though she knew she hadn't.

"What have you heard about Sara?" Warrick pressed, sitting forward in his chair, and resting his elbows on the table.

Nick studied Helen with interest. He couldn't imagine Grissom firing Sara, though he did recall uneasily the incident with Catherine and Cecilia Laval, and knowing the writer's connection to the mayor, worried that perhaps Sara had gone too far, though Cecilia didn't seem the type to tattle. He couldn't envision Sara quitting either, though obviously something had been eating her. Surely if she planned to leave, she would have said something to the rest of the team.

Warrick wanted to believe that Helen Chang had indeed misunderstood whatever she was implying about Sara, but he knew that she hadn't. _Something _was up. "Helen?" he prodded.

"Look, I'm really sorry I said anything, I'm obviously speaking out of turn," the swing supervisor said in embarassment. She glanced at the men apologetically then retreated from the room.

"What the hell is going on?" Nick voiced his consternation as he watched Helen Chang hurry down the hall. "Has Sara said anything to you, Rick, anything at all...?"

Warrick shook his head. "No, man, I'm just as in the dark on this as you." Then he remembered Sara almost running into him in the hall last week. How flustered and upset she had been.

"Where is she now?" Nick asked.

"She was running over to PD to see O'Reilly about a case, but said she wouldn't be long," Warrick answered. Sara had been quiet. Withdrawn. But nothing that was unprecedented behaviour for Sara. "You think we should say something to her?"

"Hell, yeah!" Nick answered, dark brows knitted with concern.

CSICSICSICSICSICSI

When Sara looked up to see Nick and Warrick enter the computer lab, she realized instantly that they knew. There was a mixture of speculation and disappointment on their individually handsome features. She swallowed hard, and resisted the urge the bow her head in avoidance of the inevitable.

"Talk to us," Warrick said, firmly, though his voice was laced with concern, his extraordinary green eyes filled with compassion.

Sara tried to smile, though it came out more as a grimace. "I guess you guys heard."

"What exactly did we hear, Sara?" Nick demanded. "What's going on?" He stood to the left of Warrick and a half step behind, his hands planted on his hips.

There was no easy way to say it. "I quit," she said simply, expelling the two words in nervous gush. Two words. Five little letters. With the power to alter her future in ways that she couldn't imagine and had so far refused to contemplate. Five little letters that caused her heart to ache with each pounding beat, and her stomache to twist and her intestines to coil. Five little letters that meant that most final of good byes, and a separation from the colleagues who had come to be her friends.

"Why?" Warrick asked quietly.

"When are you going? Where are you going?" Nick questioned bleakly at the same time.

Sara sighed and compressed her lips to stop the trembling that threatened. She shrugged her shoulders and blinked her lashes rapidly, horrified to feel the moisture building up beneath them. Her throat felt too tight, as though someone had slipped an invisible garrotte around it, and the power of speech seemed denied to her. Sara continued to look at the two men, taking in the familiar square set of Nick's jaw, and the dimple that she had always thought was so cute, and the smooth, mocha surface of Warrick's attractive features beneath those amazing, soulful eyes. Wanting to imprint their images on her brain's hard drive, protecting them from ever being erased.

"I, uh..." Sara managed to croak out a couple of words. She continued to struggle, determined not to be done in by the weakness of emotion. "It was just...something I...I had to do." She swallowed hard, her nostrils flaring as she sought for air. "I'm here for a month," she answered Nick's question. "I...I'm still exploring my options. I've, uh, got a...a couple things on the go." The last part was a lie. She didn't really have any leads yet, but she didn't want them to know how desperate she was to get away, that she had recklessly given her resignation before she had secured new employment.

_It had something to do with Grissom. _Warrick would have bet his life savings on that, if he'd been a betting man anymore. He looked at Sara helplessly, wondering what he could have done differently. How he could have helped her. Feeling guilty that he hadn't seen how serious the situation was and hadn't done something to prevent the awful finality of this step Sara had felt she had no other choice but to take.

"Is there anything we can do to change your mind?" Nick asked hopefully, though the dullness in his eyes mirrored his understanding of the truth.

"Nope," Sara said. She sat rigidly in her chair. This wasn't the first time she'd changed jobs, or uprooted herself from the familiar. She had done it coming from San Francisco. Left behind the co-workers that she enjoyed, and the beautiful city that had been home. People did it all of the time, and it was seen as something positive. And it had been a great learning experience coming to Las Vegas. She had grown so much, professionally. It was a gold star on her resume, having been a criminalist with this lab. She was just taking the next step in her career development.

So why was there none of that eager anticipation that Sara had felt when she had boxed up her meager belongings, sold off her furniture, and flown from California to Nevada? Sara knew damn well why. Because when she had first come here to Las Vegas, she hadn't been coming just for a job. She had been coming here for a man. For Grissom. And now, years later, she was having to admit to herself that she had been orchestrating her life under false pretenses. Oh there was a job here for her, certainly, if she wanted it. But when she had arrived with dreams of love, they had been unattainable from the onset. And now Sara wasn't merely moving on. She was running away, broken and empty. Jobless. Having failed miserably at finding stability. Having failed miserably at finding love. It was time to grind those rose-coloured glasses beneath her heel, accept her failure, and move on with what little pride there was left to muster.

But oh, how Sara would miss them, these two, she thought, as she gazed at the pair. She couldn't imagine not hearing Nick's charming Texas drawl anymore, or Warrick's low, sensuous tones, or observing the friendly professional rivalry the two men shared. Another screw tightened on her heart. Sara knew that despite all of the things she wanted to say to them, the feelings she wanted to share about how much she had grown to respect and care for them, that she wouldn't...couldn't.

"What does Grissom have to say about all of this?" Nick wanted to know.. He couldn't imagine Gil letting Sara just walk away.

Sara's eyes glinted and she gave a hollow laugh. "What can he say really? What would he say?" And indeed, except for chastizing her about her unprofessionalism, and expressing frustration at having to be going through the hiring process, clearly Gil had been unaffected by the announcement of her leaving. He had flown off to Reno without another word to her.

Her phone had rung once, yesterday morning, while she had lain in bed, tossing and turning, trying to find the sleep that might be a haven from her pain. Sara had snatched it up, flipping it open. There had been only that single ring though. Her call display had alerted her to the fact that the incoming call had been from Grissom's phone. Except...he hadn't completed it. Either changing his mind and deciding that he had nothing to say to her afterall, or realizing he had misdialled and rather than apologizing for his error and having to have an unintentional and clearly unwanted exchange with her, Gil had simply hung up.

"If there's anything I can do..." Warrick offered, his voice trailing off.

"Me too," Nick added. "Anything. You gotta know..."

Sara nodded, touched by the offers. "I do know," she interjected, cutting Nick off. She knew she wouldn't be able to handle it if Nick said anything even remotely sentimental. "And thanks guys. Really." Sara dug her nails into her palms, concentrating on the pricking of pain, willing her two co-workers to leave her while she still managed to cling precariously to her composure.

"See you later then," Warrick told her, sensing how on edge Sara was and that she wanted to be alone. When he turned and left, with Nick in tow, Sara sighed her relief.

In her haste to distance herself from Grissom, to put an end to her obsession and to reclaim her soul, Sara hadn't given much thought to all of the other things she would be sacrificing. Nick and Warrick. Catherine...with whom, despite the tumultuous history of their relationship, she felt an indefinable link. Brass, who always had her back in the field, and who had always been a paternal voice of reason. Greg and Bobby in the lab, Greg with his enthusiasm and energy and Bobby with his quiet charm and subtle humour. Doc Robbins with his professional wisdom. David, sweet David, who had admitted his crush on her, maintaining his pride and his dignity, and whose bravery in taking a chance and risking rejection, Sara had never credited before. All of them...so special to her in their own way, such an integral part of her life, somehow managing to worm their way through her defenses over the years, without Sara even realizing it until now that it was far too late.

It was only a few moments afterwards, when Warrick had headed off to Trace, that Nick remembered that he had left his notes on the Hatcher case back in the computer lab before break. When he stepped into the room, he was halted by the sight of Sara, bent over her computer keyboard. Her face was buried in the palms of her cupped hands, her dark hair falling over them. The slender shoulders beneath her thin, cotton t-shirt shook, her body wracked by silent sobs.

Nick stood there, shocked. His first inclination was to go to Sara, to put his arms around her. To comfort her. His empathetic heart ached for the depth of her sorrow. But then Nick understood that while such a move might make _him _feel better, that Sara would be appalled. She would be mortified to know that Nick had witnessed her crying. Especially in public. Especially at work. And for Sara, the shame of that vulnerability would be worse than whatever had precipitated her tears.

And so Nick backed out of the room, his face crumpled with the weight of his compassion, his steps heavy with the knowledge that he couldn't ease her pain.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

She could hardly believe that he had been gone a month already. Amy Martens wandered through the darkened house that she and Denny had lived in for the last eleven years. She knew these rooms well enough not to need more than the diffused rays of moonlight that slanted through the curtains, to navigate them. She walked with her arms hugged close to her chest, as though to ward off a chill that only she could feel in the sultry August desert night.

_Oh, Denny. _

It was the nights that she missed her husband the most. When the queen-sized bed seem far too big for just one. There was no one to hog the coverlet, and no one to poke in the ribs to silence rumbling snores. There was no one to hold her in the circle of his arms, sharing dreams or their passion.

He was in a better place, Amy knew, cradled in the embrace of the Father. Free from pain and disappointment. Never again knowing want or sin. Re-united with the loved ones who had gone before. His warm smile was lighting the celestial skies now. His happy laughter was the current that lifted the wings of angels. One day, when God deemed it time, she would join her Denny again. Amy Martens believed that with every fibre of her being. And she knew, she just _knew_ that Denny was watching over she and Christian still. His love enveloping and protecting them as it always had...just differently.

But oh, Lord help her selfish heart, even though Denny's earthly suffering was at an end and he had ascended to the throne, Amy couldn't help but miss him desperately. And sometimes...sometimes late at night, she would cry hot tears of bitterness and anger, and darkness would grip her soul. She would get on her knees then, and pray. Pray that in her small-minded humanity, unable to grasp the grand design of the Lord, God would reach His hand down to comfort her.

Tonight, though prayer had helped, Amy was still restless and on edge. She had wandered the halls, pausing in the open doorway of Christian's room, where he slumbered on his stomache, his dear face sunk into the pillow, one arm trailing over the side of his twin bed. He was getting so tall, outgrowing the bed, Amy realized. She'd have to see about getting him a new one. A double, probably, since the room wouldn't hold anything bigger without appearing too crowded.

Amy continued her silent march, no real destination in mind, and soon found herself poised at the doorway of Denny's office. Since the funeral, she had been making an effort to sort all of Denny's things. Her brother, Glen, thought it was too soon. But Amy believed that it would help her to accept the reality and the finality of her loss. She wasn't purging Denny from her life. Heaven knew she could never do that. But she found a comfort of sorts, going through his closets. Keeping a favourite tie, or pair of slippers, for a memory trunk. Donating those other items that still had wear, to the men's shelter, and to the church.

Amy crossed the room, and seated herself on the high-backed office chair. Swivelling it, she reached across Denny's desk, and turned on the banker's lamp, which cast its yellow light. She ran her fingers over the surface of the desk, picking up the painted, clay paperweight that Chris had made for Denny for Father's Day when he was in the first grade. Denny had been so delighted with the gift, so effusive with his praise, that Amy had almost thought Christian's proud grin would split his lightly freckled cheeks.

Chris's six year old hands had turned the lump of clay into a more than passable representation of a turtle, it's shell painted a very unturtle-like orange and purple. How Denny had cherished the paperweight. He'd even taken it into work, to grace his desk at the station. When one of the cleaners had accidentally knocked it to the floor, breaking off one of the legs, Denny had wrapped his treasure in a silk handkerchief and brought it home for repairs. After that, it had remained here, safe on his desk at home.

Amy brushed at the tears that had dropped onto the turtle's shell. How many times had she come into this room, to observe Denny just sitting in this very chair, holding the little turtle in one hand, his thumb absently rubbing its shell? It was his good luck turtle, his thinking turtle, he would tell she and Christian.

As she set the paperweight back on the desk, her gaze travelled to the small safe tucked in the far corner of the room, beneath a potted jade plant. Amy had already dealt with all of their important papers they had kept in their joint security deposit box at the bank. She had forgotten about this small safe in Denny's office though. She didn't even know what he kept in there.

Rising to her feet, Amy went to kneel down by the safe. She knew the combination, though she had never opened this safe before. Deftly her fingers turned the black knob, and in moments the fireproof door was swinging open. There was only a few papers, and they were denoted as copies, from the active cases Denny had been working on at the time of his death. Amy imagined that they could probably be destroyed in the shredder, but she would take them to the station, just in case there was anything important there. At the bottom of the pile was a folded piece of handwritten parchment.

Amy unfolded the letter, noting that it was not dated. _Dear Detective Martens, _it began. She read through it twice, puzzled. What did it mean? Why had Denny kept it? And more importantly, why hadn't he shared it with her? They hadn't had any secrets from one another...or so Amy Martens had thought. While the letter's import was lost on her, obviously it had meant something to Denny. Enough for him to not only hold onto it, but to keep it in his safe.

She knew that Denny's death was an accident. She had accepted that readily. So why the small hairs at the back of her neck should stand up now, and why Amy's eyes would dart nervously to the window, while her mind sought to recall whether or not she had locked all of the doors, was a mystery to her. There was nothing overtly threatening in this letter, nothing to account for the chill that worked its way up her spine.

Perhaps...perhaps she should take this letter to the precinct with her, with the other papers. Or maybe...maybe she should take it to Jim Brass. He was the one who had investigated the hit and run. Jim would set her mind at ease that there was nothing menacing about the letter, and that it had no connection to what had happened to Denny. _Of course, how could it?_


	25. Chapter 25

Cecilia felt a weight settle beside her, and drowzily opened her eyes to see Jim Brass perched at the edge of the bed, smiling at her. He was holding a ceramic mug from which curled tendrils of steam. "Okay, I'm a little late, but here's that coffee I promised. Just cream, right?"

In the light of morning there was no awkwardness, no regret. No shame to colour the exquisite joy of the night before. Jim was gazing at her as though it was entirely natural that she wake up there in his bed. She observed that he was bare chested, wearing only striped cotton pajama bottoms. His hair was slightly damp and his skin had a ruddy, freshly scrubbed glow. Cecilia's fingers itched to curl in the dark hairs above his navel, but she resisted the urge. "Yes, thank you," she answered instead.

"How do scrambled eggs sound? There's enough time for a quick shower first, if you like." Jim nodded to the ensuite bathroom. Cecilia nodded her appreciation of both ideas. He leaned to set the mug on the end table beside her, then stood. He titled his head and smiled at her again for a moment, then padded out of the room, his bare feet making soft footfalls on the wood floor.

Cecilia sat up, stretching luxuriously. She had slept wonderfully, falling asleep in Jim's arms, in a deep, dreamless slumber. The memory of their lovemaking washed over her, and her body warmed at the remembrance. Jim was an incredible lover. Cecilia knew from past experience that the first time with a man wasn't always that wonderful, and that it often took time to learn a new lover's body, and they yours. It was a delight to be so in tune with someone, taking and receiving pleasure so readily.

She noticed the navy, terry cloth robe at the end of the bed, below her feet and knew at once that Jim had left it for her use. Sliding out from between the cool, Egyptian cotton sheets, and picking up the robe, Cecilia made her way to the bathroom.

Shortly afterwards, she sat perched on a wooden stool at the kitchen island, kitty-corner from Jim. The blue robe was belted at her waist, her towel-dried hair hanging over her shoulders. Since Jim was in pajamas, she hadn't felt any pressure to change into her black dress, and Cecilia was enjoying the easy companionship of their shared meal in the comfort of terrycloth. Jim had prepared scrambled eggs for both of them, and lightly buttered toast, setting a bottle of ketchup on the countertop between them, which she had declined and which he had squeezed liberally over his portion.

"This coffee is wonderful," Cecilia told him over the brim of her mug. She was on her second cup and savouring each delicious sip.

Jim grinned at her. "It's Blue Hawaiian," he chuckled. "I used to razz Greg Sanders about his predilection for it. Then one day he gave me a cup. I was hooked. After that it became an occasional extravagance. Don't say anything to Sanders though, or I'll never live it down." He winked at Cecilia.

"Your secret is safe with me," she grinned back engagingly.

Jim insisted on cleaning up the few dishes on his own, and he shooed Cecilia into the livingroom. She stood before the wall unit, running her fingers over the spines of an extensive CD collection. There was older, fifties and sixties music, with some classical country equally represented in the mix.

"If there's anything that catches your interest, go ahead and put it on," Jim's voice behind her suggested.

Cecilia looked at him over her shoulder. Her radio dial, both at home and in her car, were set to a new country station, but Cecilia also knew and liked many of Jim's selections. She picked a Four Tops CD and put it on the stereo.

"I like my rock with a little roll," Jim was telling Cecilia over her shoulder. As the first strains of music sounded over the hidden speakers, he took her hand and led her to the comfortable leather sofa. He settled back in one corner, and Cecilia sat beside him, leaning back across his lap and against his chest.

She listened as he told her about his parents, _'a proverbial Donny and Marie'_, only his father was the one who was a little bit country, his mother a little bit rock and roll. Growning up, he would sit in the livingroom of their small, two-storey home, and by day the radio would be tuned to his mother's twisting beat, and then when his father would come home from work, the dial would be turned to a country station. The young Jim had developed an appreciation for both genres of music, and had stayed true to those roots throughout his lifetime. He admitted to taking a bit of a ribbing as a teen, and then in college, for his choice.

Cecilia loved the sound of Jim's voice and the mellifluous tones that brought to life his younger years back in New Jersey. She could imagine him as a child, creeping down the stairs to the kitchen some nights, where once a month or so his father would gather with some buddies, to play poker. Sometimes, when the b eer had been flowing freely, the elder Brass would pick up his guitar and sing the songs of Johnny Cash, Buck Owens and Faron Young. And Jim, Jimmy as they had called him back then, would sit in the shadow and listen while the heavy blue smoke of the men's cigarettes would hang in the air that reverberated with the familiar country chords.

He spoke of his parents with deep affection. And it was apparent that growing up Jim had been very close with his older brother, Peter. Almost three years younger than his sibling, Jimmy Brass had nonetheless made an effort to keep up with him. Jim admitted to Cecilia that he was the rough and tumble child, the one who was always active and physical. The child who always had bruises and skinned knees, and who broke his wrist falling out of a tree and his collarbone tobogganing. He spoke fondly about Peter's indulgence of him, always including the young Jim on his neighbourhood jaunts with his own friends.

Cecilia smiled to herself, her head against Jim's chest, the dark hairs there curling softly beneath her cheek, while his heart below pumped a steady, comforting beat. In turn, it was her voice painting pictures for Jim about her own formulative years. She reminisced about the dry cleaning business that her parents owned, where they worked hard to just get by. Cecilia recalled the astrigent, chemical smell of the place, and some of the Sunday mornings that she and her siblings would spend earning pocket money by slipping the paper shields with the name of the business, over wire hangers.

She was the oldest of three, she told Jim, and the only daughter. The quiet, shy child who lived in a world of her own making. Always dreaming, always creating fantasy people and stories, Cecilia had been the little girl with the imaginary friend. She was the introvert, who was always engrossed in a book, and who delighted in school. Sentimental, she was the child who cried over posters of lost pets, and wept over _Charlotte's Web._

Her parents worked long hours, but they would set aside most Sunday afternoons when they would load up the station wagon with a picnic hamper and drive out to the surrounding Pennsylvania countryside. Some of Cecilia's favourite memories were of those outings, where the family was together, relaxing, enjoying potato salad and ham sandwiches on a worn blue checkered blanket.

They shared their memories while Motown played quietly in the background. Jim rested his cheek on the top of Cecilia's head, enjoying the feel of her tucked against his chest. He held her left hand in his, his arm curved around behind her waist. She spoke like a writer, Jim thought. Clearly Cecilia had an affinity for words, and an ability to express her thoughts with an effortless clarity that he both admired and envied. And she was a wonderful listener, knowing how to draw him out, with an innate understanding of those things he wanted to communicate but wasn't certain how to do so.

Jim wasn't even sure how many times the album had cycled through a repitition, or how far the hands of the clock had swept since breakfast, and he didn't care. He was content to laze there, with Cecilia in his arms. He was tired, because even though he had finally drifted off to sleep in the hours before dawn, his rest had been fitful, plagued with vague, unhappy dreams. Apparently his libido hadn't gotten the memo though, and when there came a lull in their conversation, Jim found himself cupping Cecilia's chin and turning her face up to his for a kiss.

Her response had been immediate, the kiss deepening rapidly from one of slow sensuousness to passionate ardour. When Cecilia undid the belt of the robe, allowing him access to the warmth of her curves, Jim had a moment to be grateful that he wasn't due in to work until later that afternoon, before he abandoned himself to her arms.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"I really don't understand you, Grissom!" Catherine Willows snapped angrily, her blue eyes dark with her annoyance. "When were you planning to say something? When it came time to introduce our new co-worker? Don't you think that maybe..._just maybe_...the fact that Sara has quit might be the kind of thing to talk about?"

Catherine had been stunned to come in to work tonight, one day after Elliott Keeth's funeral and her ensuant night off, to learn from Nick that Sara had quit. Apparently, Sara had given Gil her resignation Tuesday morning, the morning after her blow up with Catherine...and indirectly Cecilia...in the breakroom. And dumfoundingly, Gil had headed off to Reno for his conference, without a single word to anyone. It wasn't as though he had been _incommunicado. _He could have called Catherine, at home or at work, to share this momentous development.

Beneath Catherine's shock, lay an indefinable guilt. She knew logically that she hadn't done anything to precipitate the argument with Sara, and she didn't really believe that that incident had been the catalyst for Sara's decision to leave. But on the peripherary of her conscious mind was the understanding that Sara's resignation had something to do with Gil. With the tension between the two, and the unspoken thoughts and emotions that always swirled just below the surface of their working relationship. Perhaps...if Catherine had been a better friend to Gil, they might have discussed this. Perhaps...if she had been a better colleague to Sara...she could have initiated some sort of dialogue and helped Sara find her way out of whatever abyss had claimed her, or at least helped her to reconcile her feelings about Gil from her feelings about her job. But now it was too late. Sara Sidle had quit and Gil Grissom was sitting at his desk staring back at Catherine with a stoic disassociation that made her want to throttle him.

"This is the first night I've been in since Sara handed in her resignation," Gil told Catherine calmly.

"Okay, I'll give you that. Putting aside the fact that you've got a damn phone and could have called me at any time in the last couple of days...I do recall that we both came into the building at the same time tonight, and even shared an elevator ride. _Plenty _of opportunity to say, 'Hi, and by the way, Sara is leaving.' But noooo, instead I have to hear about it from Nick, who has to learn of it from Helen Chang!" It was Sara's and Warrick's night off so since she couldn't confront the brunette, Catherine had focused her confusion on the supervisor.

Gil rested his elbows on the table and tented his fingers. "Why is it my place to say anything, if Sara hasn't told people?" he asked blandly.

''Have you talked to her at all?" Catherine demanded in exasperation.

Gil regarded her with piercing blue eyes. "What am I supposed to say, Catherine?"

Catherine sighed her frustration. "I guess...if you still don't know..." her words trailed off, and her slim shoulders slumped in dejection.

"People move on," Gil said coolly. "We've been lucky to have the team together as long as we have. Change was inevitable. If not Sara, than Nick, or Warrick, or I. You. Sara's an adult and I'm sure she's doing what's best for Sara. Even if..," Gil paused, his mouth working around the words, seeming to weigh them, "even if the team will miss her." He shrugged. "Maybe Sara didn't say anything because she doesn't want a long good bye."

Catherine stared at Gil, her lovely features inscrutable. "No cake in the breakroom?" she asked softly. Then she left the room, and with it Grissom's ensuing silence.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"So how was your night off?" Catherine asked Cecilia nonchalantly. She was trying not to think about her earlier conversation with Grissom and all of its ramifications.

"Fine," Cecilia answered, paging through a forensic magazine that featured an article by Dr. Al Robbins. She studiously avoided looking up at the blonde.

"Just _fine_?" Catherine repeated curiously. "You weren't too bored...holed up there in your apartment, all by yourself?"

"I was certainly not bored, no," Cecilia replied, continuing to stare at the printed page as though it were the most riveting thing she had ever read.

"So, did you do anything...interesting, last night?" Catherine tried to keep her expression deadpan as she continued to quiz the other woman, in case Cecilia should raise her dark eyes from the magazine.

"Oh, you know. Nothing that you'd want to hear about, I'm sure," Cecilia told her evasively.

"I didn't do much myself," Catherine confessed. "Lindsey and I had lasagna and popped in a Harry Potter movie. I asked Brass if he wanted to stay for dinner, but apparently he had plans. So, it was just me and Linds."

"Movie night sounds nice," Cecilia remarked casually.

"I got the feeling he had a hot date," Catherine went on.

"Harry Potter?" Cecilia queried innocently.

"Um, no. Jim Brass. But you knew who I meant," Catherine accused lightly.

"Oh. Captain Brass. Well, that's nice," Cecilia replied earnestly.

"Cecilia!" Catherine exclaimed, unable to contain her grin any longer. "Tell me! Were you out with Jim last night?" In the last weeks that she had been working with the novelist, Catherine had felt a growing bond. She was comfortable with Cecilia, trusted her, and believed that the other woman trusted her in return. Each sensed in the other something to respect and admire. Catherine believed that they were fast forging a genuine friendship, and she knew that when it came time for Cecilia to leave, her abscence would leave a void. Because Catherine felt so close to her, she was comfortable enough to talk to her about Jim Brass.

"Now that you mention it," Cecilia answered slowly, consideringly, "I do believe that I was."

"Uh huh, I knew it!" Catherine announced triumphantly. For the first time, Cecilia looked up at her, her tan features lit with a grin, her dark eyes gleeful. "So where did you go? Did you have fun?"

"A fabulous seafood restaurant called the Poseidon. And yes, I had a wonderful time." Cecilia's smile was soft.

"So do you think you'll go out with him again?" Catherine wanted to know.

"I hope so, yes," Cecilia nodded her dark head.

"He's a really great guy," Catherine told her.

"So you've said before," Cecilia acknowledged teasingly. And then more seriously, "And I agree."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Gil sat in his darkened office, and stared at the computer screen, it's green glow giving his drawn features an eerie cast. He had turned out the lights in the room, sensitive to them as he struggled against the last vestiges of the migraine that had first sought to decimate him back in Reno. If anyone had walked in on him then, they would have thought his monicker of _Gruesome Grissom_ an apt one.

He couldn't understand why he was putting this off. It was imperative that he create a posting for the job. _Sara's job_. She had given him two additional weeks, grudgingly, but a month was not very long to interview and hire another CSI. And it was his responsibility to ensure that whomever they added to the team would not only be a competent criminalist, but a good fit with the existing members.

He had a valid excuse for not having created the job listing yet. He'd been away from the office. But Grissom was back now, and he couldn't wait any longer. He had to get the posting in the system. Otherwise no one was going to apply for a position that they weren't even aware was available.

Still, the command to type seemed to short circuit somewhere between his brain and his fingers.

Catherine was mad at him, Grissom knew. As though this was somehow his fault. As though he was some omnipotent being who could control something as inexorable as the passage of time, and snap his fingers and somehow pre-empt Sara's delivery of her resignation letters. As though he, Gil, could somehow convince Sara to reconsider.

He was not responsible for the actions and behaviours of another human. He didn't want that responsibility and he refused to accept it. Catherine had told him once, the first time Sara had requested a leave of abscence, that whether Gil liked it or not, people were building a family around him. That they had needs and expectations and looked to him to fulfill them. The conversation had been unnerving. Part of him had been angry, unwilling to be in that position. He'd spent a lifetime creating a distance between himself, devoting himself to his career, rather than relationships or family. To think that it was some cruel trick of fate, the ultimate joke that his successful ascension in his career had resulted in his having to face that very thing he had been shunning, was an affrontry.

And the truth of it was...he just didn't have it in him to give.

Gil recalled the first day Sara Sidle had walked into the Las Vegas lab. It had been a year since he had last seen or spoken to her, not since he had gone to San Francisco to work in tandem with the unit there, valuable for his entomological expertise. Sara had sauntered through the hall, with that endearing slouched gait, and her smile, when their eyes had met, had stirred in Gil something he had refused to acknowledge. Her permanent addition to the team, after Holly Gribbs had succumbed to the gunshot wounds she had sustained, had proven to be beneficial to the unit, and it was that contribution that Grissom had concentrated on.

Now, just a few short years later, Sara was moving on. Her worth to the team...to him...summed up in a few short lines on a standard job posting form. A clinical description of her ranking and job responsibilities. Nothing there to encapsulate her intensity and devotion to her job, her bright, quick mind, her dogged determination to follow the evidence and never give up, or her fierce desire to see justice prevail. Pain stabbed at his temple.

Gil's fingers flew over the keyboard, filling out the required fields. He didn't stop until he hit _enter_ and when his screen indicated his electronic submission had been sent and received, he closed his eyes and bowed his head.


	26. Chapter 26

_Thank you for your continued readership, and taking the time to review. It pleases me to know that someone other than myself is enjoying the story. It's fun to share with others who can relate to my obsession. Cathy._

Chapter 26

Sara strolled the halls of the building's basement, returning from an autopsy that had been overseen by Dr. Jaya Vuthoori, a newer assistant coroner who had joined the staff just a few months ago. The young East Indian woman had guided the criminalist through the procedure, and indicated the head trauma that had been the cause of death. The middle-aged man had been involved in a multiple car accident on the interstate, after being observed by witnesses driving erratically, and there was some question as to whether or not some health crisis, or perhaps alcohol had been a factor in the crash. Blood had been withdrawn and sent to toxicology.

Sara was well into a double shift, and she was feeling physically fatigued. Normally she had abundant energy, and seemed to require little sleep to function at optimum performance. But lately, weighted down by the emotional turmoil surrounding her resignation, she was finding her physical strength zapped as well.

She had had an intense conversation with Catherine almost one week ago, when the strawberry blonde had confronted her before shift the first time they had seen one another after Sara had told Grissom she was quitting. Sara could see the concern that shone in Catherine's sapphire eyes, and she could hear the empathy in her voice.

_"Why are you doing this, Sara? I know we've had our differences, but I want to help. Talk to me," Catherine had implored._

_"There's nothing to talk about really," Sara had replied. "It's done. It's just something I have to do."_

_"It's Grissom, isn't it?" Catherine had asked, her frustration evident._

_Sara had smiled sadly. "It's me. This just isn't a good environment for me, and it's my own doing. Grissom...he's a part of it, sure. A catalyst maybe, but not the cause. I haven't been happy for a long time...I don't even know if I know how that feels. I have to get away, for me." She didn't like baring her soul, but she knew that Catherine wouldn't let it rest otherwise. And...in a way Sara felt that she owed the other woman that much. Part of Sara wanted to ask Catherine about her own relationship with their supervisor, picturing her perched at the edge of Gil's desk. But she realized that ultimately not only didn't she want to know...it really didn't matter._

_"Do you have another job?" Catherine questioned with concern._

_Sara shrugged her shoulders. "I'm not worried about it. I have lots of vacation time owing to me to tide me over for a while. And some money in the bank. I know I'll find something. I have a friend in the federal system who had indicated before that there might be a place there if I was ever interested."_

_"I just wish..." Catherine struggled with her words. "I just wish I felt like you were leaving under happier circumstances..." Her blue eyes held Sara's dark ones. "I know things between us have been strained sometimes, and I'm probably just as much to blame for that, but I hope you know...I only wish you the best."_

_Sara tilted her head, touched by Catherine's sincerity. "I'll miss you guys," she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. "It was a fluke my ever coming here. I learned a lot and met some great people. But I don't think...I don't think I was ever meant to stay. And I have to follow another path."_

_Catherine had nodded, though whether she really understood, or didn't want to pressure Sara any further, Sara wasn't sure. _

When Sara had gone on-line later, searching for related employment, and had found the posting for _her_ job here with the LVPD crime labher stomache had clenched and her veins had run with ice water. She had wondered if Grissom had had any applications yet. He had said nothing to her about her leaving. The next time Sara had seen him after giving him her resignation, he had been business as usual, handing out assignments as though it were any other day, not acknowledging at all that in a few more weeks she would no longer be with them.

When Grissom had passed her a sheet of paper, his features impassable, a slow smile had spread over Sara's face and her dark eyes had assessed him. She had known in that moment that not only was her decision to leave a good one, but something that was long overdue. As hard as it might be to uproot again, there was nothing for her here. There never had been and there never would be. The Grissom that Sara's foolish heart had desired had never existed and never would. This was who he was, the cool, unaffected scientist. Untouched by those around him, living behind an unseen barrier that nonetheless was more impenetrable than the best suit of Kevlar. In that moment of clarity, though the sadness stayed with her, Sara had, for the first time, felt a quiet confidence in her decision.

"Sara," the low male voice brought her out of her reverie, and the brunette found herself looking up into David's soft, round visage. Tanned following his recent vacation to Mexico.

"Oh, hey David," she greeted, her smile natural, her pleasure to see him genuine. "Did you have a good trip?"

He nodded, standing there uncertainly, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his blue lab coat. There was a sadness in the deep brown eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses. "Yeah, it was fine. I hear you're leaving us though?"

_How many times, _Sara wondered, _would she have to go through this? _"Yeah. Time to move on."

David nodded. He didn't ask her to explain her reasons, or try to dissuade her in any way. Instead, he just looked at her with a tenderness that surprised her. "I think you already know that I sure am going to miss you," he said simply.

Sara could see the earnest longing on his face, and for the first time she realized how cavalierly she had always taken for granted David's crush on her. When she had first realized that he thought of her as more than a co-worker, Sara had been flattered, her ego bouyed. But she had been more amused than anything to know that she was the object of his affection.

Standing there now, for the first time, Sara imagined herself in David's place...heck she'd _been_ in his place, with her own pie in the sky dreams of something between she and Grissom...and a hot flush of shame, immediate and overwhelming, washed over her. She almost couldn't hold his gaze, as she remembered the time she had told him, so nonchalantly, that to attract women he needed to _lose the glasses_ and maybe _grow a little scruff. _She recalled her indulgent amusement as she had thrown him a bone, telling David that he did get a _C for cute _though.

She had not considered at the time how hard it might have been to put himself on the line like that. He had smiled at her recommendations, though he had never implemented them. His quiet confidence and sense of dignity, his pride in who he was, hadn't allowed him to transform himself, just because Sara had indicated that she felt his current appearance left something to be desired. He kept the glasses and the smooth shaven planes of his baby face. David hadn't retreated in humiliation, he hadn't made sweeping changes to try to win her approval and curry her favour, and he hadn't given any indication that he considered her a haughty bitch who thought herself too good for him. He hadn't been ashamed of his feelings, or tried to hide them from anyone, he had simply allowed it to stand that he had a crush on Sara, and that nothing more would come of it, there would be no pressure, unless she decided to pursue something.

_How could she have said those things to him? _Sara wondered aghast. _What kind of insensitive, shallow jerk was she? _As she stood there in the hallway she knew that she didn't deserve David's enduring affection for her. Sara had assessed and rejected him for superficial reasons, accepting his crush on her as her due, and overlooking all of the wonderful qualities that were a far better indicator of someone's worth.

Sara felt that she wanted to apologize, but that would be insulting, she knew. She wondered what would have happened if she had been able to put aside her single-minded obsession with Gil long enough to have gone on even one date with David. What kind of man might lay behind the gentle voice and the quiet demeanour?

"That means a lot to me," Sara said at length. "And I _will_ miss you too." And it was true, she would.

David smiled at her, reached shyly to press his hand against hers, gave it a gentle squeeze, and then he was on his way, leaving Sara feeling hollow and alone.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim Brass sat at his desk, his head bowed over a sheaf of reports, though his thoughts were elsewhere, as they often were these past several days. He and Cecilia had been constant companions since the first night they had spent together. Though Jim had been on afternoons, and she nights with the graveyard shift, he would either meet Cecilia each morning, and take her to breakfast, or she would arrive at his place with coffee and donuts. Then they would spend the hours until he had to be back in to work again, either in an exquisite tangle of limbs, or tucked up against one another on his sofa, slowly sharing the stories of their lives and learning not only one another's biographies, but also the values that were mportant to them, and the way each viewed the world. The past Sunday had been a day off for both of them, and Jim had ordered spicy chicken wings. They had eaten them while watching the Nascar race in the afternoon, each cheering on their favourite, cooling their palates with icy cold beer.

Just being with her made Jim feel happy and carefree in a way that he had never felt before. He was able to be _himself_, without apology or regret. He didn't have to pretend to be anything that he wasn't in order not to disappoint her. Cecilia accepted him for who he was, the good and the bad. Jim found himself enchanted with her, with her sweetness and strong sense of morals and ethics. He wondered how he could ever have been suspicious of her or doubted her motives in wanting to work with the CSI unit.

Cecilia was a delight, and he had laughed more with her in the preceding week, than he had in years, Jim knew. It was only now and then that a sense of desperation, a sense of urgency, would seem to swirl beneath the surface of this idyll, and it would manifest itself in an occasional frenzy in their lovemaking. It was as though there was an unspoken realization which they managed to banish from the other moments of their time together. A realization that all of this was temporary. And then when they were their closest and most vulnerable, together in his bed, Jim rebelled against the thought of losing Cecilia and sought to claim her in that most primal of ways. She would cling to him, and cry his name, and Jim would wonder if Cecilia felt the inevitable pain of their eventual separation as acutely as he did.

The other morning, brushing her hair in the reflection of the mirror above the low bureau opposite his bed, Cecilia had reached for the single framed photograph there. It was one of the rare photos he had of he and Ellie, a picture taken in their small yard in Jersey. It had been a crisp, spring day, Jim recalled. The sky a deep, cloudless blue. Ellie was perched on his shoulders, a salty ocean breeze tumbling her platinum curls around the cherubic oval of her laughing face. His hands gripped her chubby legs, holding her safe while she surveyed her domain.

He and Nancy had been divorced by then. It was Jim's weekend with Ellie, and the day of her third birthday. Her mother had arranged for a birthday party that morning, so Jim had agreed to pick up Ellie later in the day instead. That had been back when he had still excercised his right of visitation with some regularity. Ellie had run to him when he had arrived, excitedly chattering about her party, high on cake and ice cream.

She had thrown herself against his legs, reaching her arms up for him. Jim had lifted her effortlessly, swinging her through the air and depositing her on his shoulders. Since Nancy had her camera handy from the party, and was apparently in a generous and amenable mood, perhaps caught up in their daughter's joy and infectious laughter, she had snapped the photo. It was Jim's favourite, a reminder of a time when he had still been a good father to Ellie, and when she had loved him unconditionally.

Cecilia held the photograph, tracing her finger over Ellie's babyish features. Though the girl had changed and matured between the time that photo was taken, and the school portrait in Jim's wallet, there was enough of a resemblance there that Cecilia knew it was the same girl. _"She has her father's eyes," _Cecilia had remarked innocently, looking up to smile at Jim.

He had been unprepared for the sorrow that had assailed him. Jim had felt as though someone had whacked him in the solar plexus, and the air had whooshed out of him in a strangle. He had turned his back to Cecilia, not wanting her to see the pain that glazed his eyes.

She had known instantly that something was wrong, had set the photo down, and gone to him, her arms circling his waist from behind, her cheek pressing against his back, above his left shoulder. _"What's wrong?" _Cecilia had asked worriedly.

_"Ellie can't have my eyes, because I'm not her biological father," _he had answered quietly. The thing of it was that they did share similarly dark eyes, only hers had come from the genetic contribution of another man. It was a secret that very few people knew, including Ellie herself.

Cecilia had waited patiently, knowing there was more to the story. And Jim had found himself taking a deep breath, and telling it to her.

She had listened without interruption as Jim had told her about the day they had broken open the corruption that tainted the Atlantic City police department. The special task force had swept in and rounded up those who were on the take. Jim had no longer been required to lead his double life. Exhausted, his feelings about what was going down a quandry, he had gone home to Nancy, to finally explain everything.

She had sat in the livingroom on the gold, velvet wing chair, and looked at Jim with a mixture of suspicion, disbelief and finally cold acceptance of the truth. When he had begun to name the names of the cops who had been arrested earlier that day, and had mentioned Mike O'Toole, Nancy had blanched. She had gotten to her feet and stumbled to the bathroom, where he heard her retching. When she had come back out, her pretty face pale and drawn, her cheeks still damp with the water she had splashed on them, Jim had inquired solicitously what was wrong.

She had laughed then, an empty, hollow cackle, that had caused his groin to tighten and icy fingers to claw his spine. Nancy hadn't tried to soften the blow. _"I'm pregnant, and it's Mike's."_

Jim had reeled at the revelation. He was no longer in love with Nancy, and hadn't been for years. The initial youthful infatuation that had brought them together had faded for both of them long ago. Lord knew he had broken their marriage vows himself, but still his pride had stung to realize that she had been unfaithful to him as well. It wasn't so surprising really. All of the same problems that he had used as justification for his own betrayals were just as apt for Nancy's.

If there had to be someone, it really wasn't even that surprising that it had been Mike O'Toole. As much as Jim thought the man a first class son-of-a-bitch, O'Toole was handsome, confident, and Jim knew firsthand that the other man had a silver tongue and could be as manipulative as hell. Nancy and Mike knew one another, had met briefly at various parties and functions for the PD, and it wasn't such a stretch that in Jim's prolonged abscences his wife had turned to the other cop. Ironic, perhaps, but not that shocking.

But it was the fact of the pregnancy that stunned Jim the most. He didn't have to ask if Nancy was sure. She wouldn't be reacting this way if she wasn't, he knew. And there was no doubt that it wasn't his. They hadn't been together in that way for several months, and Nancy wasn't even far enough along to be showing yet. The idea that she was pregnant though had knifed through him. For years, beginning back when they had first married, they had tried to have a child. One disappointing month after another, that longing and all of the accompanying activity, had failed to come to fruition.

He supposed that their failure to conceive had been one more nail in the coffin of their marriage. If their marriage had been stronger, their relationship closer, more open, supportive and caring, they might have weathered their disappointments, and even grown closer because of them. But it hadn't worked out that way. Their barrenness seemed just one more way that they had proven incompatible.

How Jim had longed for a child. At first, he had actually harboured the hope that a baby might help he and Nancy heal their mutual wounds. He was frustrated when it seemed that there was a problem. Fertility treatments were still a young science then, and very expensive, and they had never pursued that option. They didn't even know _why _they couldn't have a baby...just that they couldn't.

And with Nancy's announcement had come the humiliating knowledge that it was _Jim_ who was the defective one. It was he all along who had been unable to get the job done. It had taken her affair with another man for Jim's wife to become pregnant. He had never felt so emasculated in his life, and had stood there helplessly, filled with shame.

To Jim's further surprise, Nancy had lunged at him then, hammering her fists against his chest, while hot tears splashed from her eyes. _"You bastard!" _she had screamed at him. _"You did this on purpose! Somehow you knew and you did it out of spite! You framed Mike, because you didn't want us to be together! I hate you! I HATE YOU!"_

Jim had stood there woodenly, while she had rained blows. He had shaken his head, unable to give voice to the words that would counter her wild claims. Nancy had continued to try to hit him even after he had captured her wrists and held them firmly but gently against his upper body. She had twisted in his grip, spitting obscenities at him. He had felt detached from his body, the whole scene surreal. As bad as things between them had been, surely it hadn't come to this?

Eventually, her fury spent, Nancy had sagged against him, sobbing, and her tears had soaked his shirt. Then she had jerked herself away, and still crying had headed for the bedroom, leaving Jim standing in the livingroom trying to absorb the immensity of what he had just learned.

She had stayed in the bedroom all evening. Jim had poured himself a whiskey, a double, and then had sat down. That was the only drink he had taken. He had stayed there for hours, nursing it, thinking. Finally, he had risen and climbed the stairs, one heavy step after another, until he had paused outside their door. He had knocked twice, given Nancy a moment and then entered.

He found her curled up on her side, salty tracks dried on her cheeks, her blue eyes dull. Jim had sat beside her on the bed, and cleared his throat.

_"Mike O'Toole _is_ going to go to jail. For a long, long time. I...I don't know what you want to do about the baby. But..." _Jim had swallowed and then forged on. _"If you want to keep it, I'll help you. I'll stay if you want. You can quit your job, and concentrate on raising the child. We could live on my salary." _Nancy was an ER nurse, that was how Jim had met her, when their jobs had crossed. _"You can put my name on the birth certificate and no one need ever know. I know...I know things have gotten bad, but I think...maybe we could put it all behind us. Start fresh." _Nancy had simply lain there, not looking at him, or even acknowledging that she heard his words.

Jim had struggled to get through to her. _"I've been a jerk, and I'm sorry, and I don't blame you for...for Mike. I just want you to know that...if you want me to...I could be a father to this baby."_ He hadn't tried to touch Nancy at all, and had just looked at her for another moment, before leaving the room.

Three days later she had come to Jim, accepting his proposal. He could see that Nancy was frightened about the future, and unsure of what they were about to do. They had been wary with one another at first, ultra polite like strangers trying to make a good impression. Eventually, as the pregnancy had progressed, they had reached an unspoken truce. Jim had accompanied Nancy to her prenatal visits, and taken Lamaze class with her. At night...though they had still not been physical together they shared the same bed...Jim would put his hand on the swelling of Nancy's belly and feel with awe the movements of the child that grew within.

They shared their anticipation of the baby's arrival. Nancy picked out items for a nursery, and Jim painted and hung wallpaper that featured cavorting lambs. He assembled an oak crib. He would watch Nancy in the evenings as she folded impossibly tiny sleepers and socks. They discussed names, Jason for a boy and Ellie for a girl. Tentatively, they found one another again.

Jim had been at work when he'd gotten the call that Nancy was in labour. The dispatcher had delayed giving Jim the message, payback for the residual hard feelings for Jim's part in bringing down the dirty cops and betraying the brotherhood. He had rushed to the hospital, to find that Nancy had already delivered the baby. There had been complications, and an emergency caesarean had been needed. But both mother and child were fine, resting and recovering from their mutual ordeal. He had looked in on his wife, sleeping peacefully. And then a matronly nurse with a kind smile had taken him to the nursery to see his child.

_A daughter!_ A tiny pink-wrapped bundle with a sparse covering of blonde, downy fluff on her head. Six pounds and four ounces of perfection. When the nurse had handed him the sleeping babe, for a moment Jim's eyes had swam with tears. He held her awkwardly, terrified that he would either drop her or crush her. The nurse had assured him that babies weren't as fragile as they looked.

And then she had opened her eyes. Jim knew that she couldn't really see him. A baby's eyesight was not that well developed immediately following birth. But he would have sworn that her big, dark eyes were focused on his. His daughter. _Ellie._

_"Congratulations, Mr. Brass," _the nurse had said. _"She's beautiful. Job well done, dad."_

Jim had forgotten that while this was the child of his heart, she wasn't also the child of his body. He had accepted the praise and had thought his heart with burst with pride.

He had loved Ellie from the moment he had been introduced to her. And she was his daughter in every way that mattered. She was everything that was good and right with the world. It was only rarely that Jim would remember that it was another man's blood that ran in her veins. And when he did...it didn't change how he felt about his daughter, it only changed how he felt about himself.

Sometimes, looking into her enormous dark eyes and seeing his own face reflected there, Jim would feel a dark anger towards Mike O'Toole, incarcerated now in a maximum security prison. A hatred that stemmed from jealousy. More than anything in the world, Jim would wish that this beautiful, fair-haired child really was the result of something he had done right, her conception not a culmination of all of the things that he had done wrong.

Ellie was to be their only child. Even if, by some miracle, Jim wasn't actually sterile, Nancy had suffered complications from the c-section. An ugly postpartum infection that had almost claimed her life, had resulted in an emergency hysterectomy, and there could be no more pregnancies.

Laying in a hospital bed, in pain, doped up on drugs, angry at the loss of her womanhood, the closeness that had been growing between them in the final months of her pregnancy, began that day to die. Nancy had said to Jim after the surgery. _"Well, at least I have Ellie." _Not_ we,_ but_ I_, and her direct gaze had let Jim know in no uncertain terms that her choice of words had been deliberate.

Nancy had let him continue to raise the child. She carried his name. _Ellie Rebecca Brass. _To everyone on the outside, Jim Brass was her father. But every now and then, when Nancy was feeling particularly angry, hurt or petulant, she would remind Jim that Ellie was not his biological child. He had never understood _why_ Nancy did it, or what pain of her own ignited her need to lash out and hurt him in return. He never asked, but he wondered sometimes if perhaps Nancy had actually been in love with Mike O'Toole. If she had believed they had a future together, as a family, and if seeing Jim with Ellie was a reminder of what would never be. He imagined that she still probably blamed him for O'Toole being behind bars.

_"She has her father's eyes," _Nancy would remark deliberately, always in the prescence of others who were oblivious to the undertones, or the true extent of that seemingly innocent comment. Of course, they would smile at Jim, and agree, and he would have to hide the wellspring of emotion that would threaten to drown him. And then Nancy would look at Jim coolly, while unseen, his heart bled into his chest.

The first time she had done it, he had hated her with a ferocity that had finally killed any fond feelings Jim had ever had for her. He had said nothing to Nancy after the incident, when they were alone again. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of knowing how she had hurt him. Refusing to give her another opportunity to remind him that despite his most fervent wishes, Ellie would never entirely be his.

When he had finished his tale, Cecilia had tightened her hold on him. _"Thank you for telling me. I'm so sorry, Jim," _she had told him quietly. _"I can't imagine how that must have made you feel."_

He had waited uncomfortably for the words that would come next. The ones that would tell him that there was more to being a father than biology, and that he was Ellie's _real _father in every way that mattered. The words that would unintentionally negate his pain, and necessitate his agreement that yes, a shared gene pool was no big deal. Words meant to comfort, but which actually took away his right to feel the anger and the sorrow. But those words hadn't been forthcoming. Cecilia had just held him. And Jim had been grateful for her understanding that nothing more could be or needed to be said.

Jim wanted to reach for his phone now, to call Cecilia and seek the reassurance of her voice. He had just started working days again, and he knew that if he called now though he would wake Cecilia, resting after working the night shift last night. He would see her again later this afternoon, he knew. She had a key to his apartment now, and had said something about cooking him dinner before she had to be back in to the crime lab later tonight. Normally a man with unending patience, Jim knew that time would stretch tauntingly for him today.

There was a knock at his open door, and Brass looked up, surprised to see Amy Martens silhouetted in the doorway of his office. "Did I catch you at a bad time, Captain?" she asked politely.

"No, not at all," Jim said, getting to his feet and crossing the room. "It's good to see you, Amy. How are you?" He extended his hand and shook hers warmly.

Jim thought guiltily that he should have called her before now, to check in and see how she and Christian were doing. Even though Denny's case had been closed, it would have been the considerate thing to do, as an old friend, if not as a cop. He had received a lovely card of thanks from Denny's widow just two weeks after his death. Handwritten, it had expressed Amy and Chris's gratitude for the generous donation to the summer camp fund, that Jim had made in Denny's memory. It had indicated their appreciation of his prescence at the funeral and for all the work that he had done, professionally, following the accident. Jim had been touched and impressed by the personal nature of the note, and wondered at the inner strength that allowed Amy Martens to be so thoughtfully conscientious at the time of such a terrible loss.

"I'm doing all right," she told him with a brave smile. There was a gentle fragility to her, an ethereal quality to her pale skin, and luminous green eyes. Amy Martens was dressed smartly in a tan, linen pantsuit, her hair neatly coiffed. Up close, Jim could see that her make up almost concealed the dark smudges that indicated sleep was not coming easy to her.

"What can I do for you?" the detective queried.

"I've been meaning to stop by for the last week," she began apologetically, "I was just waiting for a reason to be downtown. I had to come in today to sign some insurance forms. I was going to call, but I thought it better if I came in person." She prattled nervously, one hand to her slender throat.

"Please, sit down," Brass said, indicating the leather chair opposite his desk. He leaned on the edge of it while she settled herself, and he wondered curiously what had brought her here.

"Denny had a small safe, in his office at home," Amy explained. "The other night I decided to go through it. I found copies of some reports...cases he had been working on...when he died. They were duplicates, but I thought I should take them to the precinct anyways." Jim nodded his encouragement. "Anyhow, at the very bottom, there was a letter. It just...I don't know. Denny had never mentioned it, and it wasn't like him to keep secrets. Yet, whatever it was, it seemed important enough to him that he not only kept it, but he kept it locked up."

She was reaching for her purse then, opening it and extracting a plain white envelope. "I touched it when I read it. But then I remembered...finger prints...and I put it in this envelope, just in case...there was something that needed to be preserved." She handed it to the detective. "I don't really understand it, and it's probably nothing. I couldn't even say how long it's been there...but I thought...I should bring it to you."

Brass took it, feeling the ripple of gooseflesh on his forearms. Why would Amy Martens bring the letter to him? Why not take it to the station that Denny had been working out of? Did she believe that it was somehow connected to Denny's death? There could be no other reason she would think to take it him, Jim knew. "Excuse me for a minute," he was telling her. "Just let me grab some gloves." He set the letter on the desk.

He returned moments later, pushing his fingers snuggly into the latex pockets. Apprehensively, he extracted a single piece of folded parchment and read the looping, cursive hand.

_Dear Detective Martens,_

_Do you ever lay awake at night and think about the things you've done wrong? The mistakes you've made? Wishing you could go back and rectify them? Or do you lay in bed, sleeping the slumber of the perpetually oblivious?_

_To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. And the wicked go free. Sometimes, there is a pivotal moment...where one is on the brink...where the future hangs in the balance of one choice, one decision. Where your error demonizes the innocent and unleashes the devil. But sometimes, too stupid to recognize the mistake, the inferior pat themselves on the back and go on and others must pay the price of their failure._

_Do you sleep well, Detective? Or do you ever lay awake at night? Thinking. Remembering._

The letter was unsigned. Brass held it between his hands, rereading it, not sure what to make of it. There was nothing specifically threatening about the letter. No hint of retribution. No harbinger of violence to come. Yet Jim felt an icy chill permeate his bones. What did the letter mean? Why had Denny kept it?

"I guess there was no original envelope with this?" Jim asked, though he knew if there had been, Amy Martens would have brought it as well.

She shook her head. "Does it mean anything?" she asked reluctantly, her eyes wide. "Please. I'd like to know whatever you're thinking."

Brass sighed. "I don't know. I really don't. On the surface, there's nothing to connect this letter to what happened to Denny."

Her chin trembled. "Then you don't think there is any chance that Denny's death was deliberate? That he was...murdered?"

Jim was torn. How could he tell Amy that from the very beginning the whole scenario of a random hit and run, had felt _wrong _to him? That he had never really concurred with the official conclusion, that Denny's death had been unfortunate accident? How could he tell her that he was suspicious of Elliott Keeth's death as well? He had nothing concrete to go on, not a single shred of evidence. Just his gut hunch, which, though finely honed over the years, had proven to be not infallible. How could he destroy any semblance of peace she might have found in the aftermath of her terrible loss, on the basis of a _feeling_?

"There is nothing to indicate that," he told her truthfully. She relaxed visibly. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to keep this anyways. See if we can lift a print. See what handwriting analysis can tell us. No harm in checking it out." Brass tried to keep his tone casual but Amy was not fooled and the tension returned to her willowy frame.

"You think there's a chance it might mean something," she said bluntly.

"There's always a chance," he admitted slowly. "But I don't want you to jump to any conclusions. Realistically, it's so unlikely as to be improbable. I give you my word though that if there is anything to indicate that this letter is in any way connected to what happened to Denny, you'll know when I know."

Amy Martens stared at the detective. Denny had always said that Jim Brass was a great cop, a top notch detective. Professionally, her late husband had had a great deal of respect for him. Personally, Denny hadn't had a lot in common with Jim. There were unspoken things that he didn't like about the other detective. He'd always said that there was a sad nobility about him though. And that if push came to shove, Jim Brass would be one of the good ones. A man he would trust. Amy had always believed unfailingly in her husband's perceptions. If Denny had trusted Jim Brass, that was good enough for her. "All right," she nodded.

She stood then, and reached to shake Jim's hand, clasping his in both of hers, holding on a bit too tightly, evidence of the strain she was feeling. Brass felt the cold metal of the bands that circled the ring finger of Amy's left hand. Automatically, his eyes dipped to the plain, gold wedding band, and the modest diamond solitaire.

She followed his line of sight. _"Til death do us part," _Denny's widow whispered. She dropped her head then, and began to cry.

Brass put his arms around her. Amy Martens raised her hands, palms out against his chest, and leaned her face into them. He smoothed the auburn hair that fell across her shoulders, and murmured consolingly. She seemed to welcome the embrace, and his kindness caused a resurgence of tears. Eventually, she raised her head, wiping at her eyes with the backs of her hands. Jim reached over his desk, and handed her a couple of tissues. She wiped them beneath her eyes until the final black smears from her mascara had been removed and the tissue came away clean.

"Most of the time, I can deal with what has happened," Amy told Jim. "But every now and then, I just miss him so very much." She smiled crookedly, and he was glad to see that she seem unabashed by her display of sorrow, comfortable to grieve in his prescence.

"I can't imagine how it must be for you," Jim said softly, recalling to mind Cecilia's simple, but wise words to him. "I'm sorry."

She nodded her appreciation. "Thank you, Jim. For everything." She leaned toward him then and gave him a quick hug.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had company," Sheriff Mobley apologized as he stepped into Brass' office.

Amy Martens withdrew. "I was just leaving. Hello, Sheriff."

Brian Mobley recognized Denny Martens widow. "Mrs. Martens," he greeted. He inquired as to how she and her son were doing, then they exchanged pleasantries for a few moments.

"I'll call you," Jim told her, as she excused herself from the room. Then, with less enthusiasm, "What can I do for you, Sheriff?"

After Mobley had left, Jim sat down behind his desk. Pushing back in his chair he reread the letter yet again. There was something that he was missing. The letter _did_ mean something. And when he figured out what it was...Jim knew he would have a very important piece of the puzzle.


	27. Chapter 27

He dialed the extension for Archives. "Yeah, this is Brass. I need Detective Denny Martens' jacket pulled and sent up to my office. Thanks." Jim wanted to look over Denny's file. To see if there was anything that would relate, even vaguely to the strange letter that Amy Martens had brought in earlier. A prior case where Denny had made some error. Arrested the wrong perp, perhaps.

He had already done some checking immediately following Denny's death. Brass had looked first at the active cases, where Denny might be called to testify in a court case, his appearance on the witness stand a threat to someone's freedom, or even their very life. He had checked all of Denny's most recently completed cases as well. Neither search had turned up anything that might link to the hit and run. Brass had looked into the recent release of any felons Denny had ever put away in the span of his career, someone who might have a grudge to settle. But nothing had stood out.

Jim was determined to go through the file again. To go further back if necessary. To sift through the minutia of Denny's career in case he had missed something. He lifted the envelope with the strange letter. It felt so light in his hand, and yet its existence weighed heavily on his shoulders. Brass would take the letter over to the CSI lab on his way home, and have them run some tests on it. He had made a copy of it for himself.

Sighing, he rose and went to the locked bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Opening it, he extracted the whiskey bottle he had removed from Elliott Keeth's apartment the day of the funeral. It was in a sealed evidence bag now, even though it could never _be_ entered as evidence. He had removed it improperly from the scene, thereby stripping it of any future legal value it might have. But Jim had felt no choice but to take it before it was disposed of by a clean up crew. He would slip it into the investigation now as part of a re-opening of the Martens case. It might not be _official _evidence, but Brass wanted the bottle, and the residual contents, tested.

After Keeth's death, when he had found the time, Jim had cross-referenced some of the cases that Elliott and Denny Martens had worked together over the span of their years with LVPD. There were many, some more sensational that others, but nothing that had stood out as being particularly ominous. He would have to go through all of them again. If someone had deliberately killed Denny, and perhaps made it look like an accident, Jim couldn't shake the feeling that the same person might have orchestrated Elliott's demise.

There was another angle that Brass hadn't considered previously, but which the letter might possibly allude to. Perhaps a disgruntled victim, or an outraged friend or family member, incensed by an unsolved case, and desperate for some semblance of justice and eager to see _someone_ pay, had turned their frustration on the cops who had failed to solve their crime. Lord knew, there were enough cold cases...the ones that got away. As hard as it was for a detective to have to close the file on an unsolved crime, how much harder must it be for the victims?

And then...and this was a disquieting thought, but something that Brass knew he had to consider...if he was looking for someone with a grudge, there was always the remote possibility that he was looking for a colleague. A fellow cop. Maybe someone who had been passed over for promotion, and who blamed Martens and Keeth somehow. It seemed unlikely...both men had been made detectives a long time ago, too long for someone to stew over before acting out, and had been with two entirely different departments the last few years. But Brass had learned long ago that you could never predict the irrationality of human nature. And you just never knew what might prove to be the catalyst to cause someone to break. And another cop would have enough knowledge of forensics to know to burn the stolen SUV and decimate any evidence within.

He wondered if Elliott Keeth had ever received a letter similar to the one Denny had. He rifled through his briefcase, and extracted the fax of the report of Keeth's death. There was a cell and business number for Dana Asmundsen, Elliott's girlfriend. Brass punched the long distance number into the phone.

She answered on the second ring, her voice sounding strained...tired. "Hello?"

"This is Detective Jim Brass calling for Dana Asmundsen," he began.

"This is she." Slight puzzlement in her voice. There was nothing to indicate whether or not she recalled his name from the memorial service.

"I'm sorry to bother you Ms. Asmundsen," Brass told her. For a moment he found himself second-guessing the wisdom of this call. Dana Asmundsen had accepted Elliott's death as an accident, just as Amy Martens had accepted Denny's. Jim's questions would likely give her pause to question that, potentially opening up a whole lot of hurt and heartache, and very possibly for nothing. But he had to know if Keeth had received a similar letter. It would be the first and only hard proof to tie the two deaths and suggest foul play. "I just have one question, if you wouldn't mind. In the weeks, or possibly the few months before Elliott's death, do you know if he received any unusual or troubling correspondence? Did he ever mention the existence of a cryptic letter, or even show you anything like that?" Brass held his breath.

The only sound on the other end was her soft breathing. For several moments she said nothing, and if he hadn't heard her exhalations, Jim might have thought they'd been disconnected, or that she had simply hung up on him. He waited, allowing her time to search her memory. Finally, she replied. "No, not that I'm aware of. I can't recall anything like that." She paused. "Why do you ask? What is this all about? Are you with the Laughlin PD, Detective Brass?" Her tone was edged with suspicion.

"I'm with the Las Vegas Police Department," he told her. "I'm investigating a case here...involving an old colleague of Elliott's."

His vague answer seemed to satisfy her. Perhaps, still dealing with the grief of her recent loss, Dana Asmundsen simply couldn't sustain interest in anything else. She seemed to accept that he wasn't making inquiries about Keeth, per se, and did not connect his call with Keeth's death. "I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

Brass wondered who was dealing with Elliott's personal effects. One of the sons, or the girlfriend. "I'm sorry for your recent loss, Ms. Asmundsen. I worked with Elliott at one time, he was good man."

She seemed to place him now. "You were at his memorial service," Dana said.

"Yes. I know this is not the best time for this, but I was wondering who might have possession of Elliott's personal items, papers, that sort of thing."

She didn't seem offended by the probing. "I do, Detective."

"Would it be all right if I leave you my number?" he suggested. "And if you happened to come across anything out of the ordinary, anything at all...a letter especially...if you could let me know, I'd greatly appreciate it."

"Certainly," she agreed.

Brass gave her the number, waited for her to write it down, and then had her repeat it. He thanked Dana Asmundsen for her time, and then ended the call. Not long afterwards, a clerk arrived with Denny's file. Brass signed for it, then placed it inside his briefcase. He glanced at his watch, wondering if Cecilia was at his apartment yet. He smiled, imagining her puttering around his kitchen.

Jim was longer at the lab than he had meant to be. When he entered the apartment, he braced himself for disappointed censure about the inconsideration of his lateness. Instead, Cecilia smiled up at him from the sofa, where she was curled with a book. The air was redolent with the smell of garlic and tomato sauce, and Jim's mouth watered in anticipation. He stood for a moment, looking at Cecilia. This was the first time she had been in the apartment ahead of him. Coming home like this, finding her here, felt so natural, so very right. He fought back the memory of all of the times he had come home to empty silence. Unwilling to contemplate how bleak it would be when that time came again.

He apologized for being late, and she nodded that it was all right. Jim took the briefcase into the spare room, the one that he had turned into a home office. When he came back out to the livingroom, Cecilia had a glass of wine waiting for him. Jim took it, then put his other arm around her, pulling her towards him. She slipped her arms around his waist. They stood for a moment, their foreheads pressing together. Then Jim ducked his head to kiss the corner of her mouth.

"Dinner will be in about fifteen minutes," Cecilia told him, shyly.

She had been looking forward to cooking for Jim all day. She'd slept only a few hours that morning, then gotten up and gone out to the market to pick up the items she would need for that night's meal. When she had arrived at the loft that afternoon, juggling the paper bags in her arms while she inserted the key in his lock, she had been struck by how quickly their relationship was progressing. She remembered Jim's initial suspicions of her. And now, he trusted her with a key to his apartment.

Along with his secrets. When she had made an innocent remark about a photograph of his daughter the other day, it had opened the floodgates on an old pain. Cecilia had listened, alternately proud, angry, sad and dismayed by the intensely personal story Jim had shared with her. He hadn't been angry at her for re-opening old wounds. He hadn't kept his sorrow to himself, and shut her out. He had allowed her inside, exposing a vulnerability that had made her heart ache. Jim had trusted her.

She had admired the openness and honesty of his sharing. When her own righteous anger had flared to learn that his ex-wife had used the same words that Cecilia had spoken so innocently, to be deliberately cruel, it had been soothed by the lack of blame in Jim's recounting. It would have been easy for him to demonize Nancy, but he had accepted equal blame for his own shortcomings that had contributed to what had been a sad situation for both of them.

Cecilia knew that she was falling hard for Jim, and that she couldn't. They had entered the relationship with the unspoken understanding that it would be a temporary one. No strings. Two adults enjoying one another for the duration of the time their paths had crossed. Jim seemed content to allow her to monopolize his time and invade his space for the present, but she knew that it was with the understanding that she would make no permanent claims on him.

She tried to tell herself that she was allright with that. That she had a full and wonderful life of her own that she would be happy to return to. Friends and family that she missed. Jim Brass was a wonderful man, and she was enjoying their time together. But she couldn't read more into this dalliance than was there. They would cram as much pleasure as they could into these next several weeks. And then they would go back to their separate lives, carrying special memories, even fond memories...but nothing more.

Yet there were moments when she would wake up in the curve of Jim's embrace, and softly touch his face, slack and untroubled in slumber, and Cecilia would ache with the depth of her feelings for him. And wonder how her head could convince her heart of the inevitability that one day soon she would again be waking alone.

They ate at the dining table, which Cecilia had set with linens she had found in the buffet, and votive candles she had purchased earlier. Jim relished the hearty meal of spaghetti and meatballs, enjoyed with a spinach salad and garlic bread. The food was simple but delicious. More even than the meal itself, Jim enjoyed the fact that Cecilia had wanted to cook for him. He praised her skill, toasting her with his second glass of wine. Cecilia declined to drink, thinking it inappropriate before going into the lab, whether she was there as an official employee and representative or not.

Afterwards, Jim turned a country CD on low, and they sat on the sofa. His mind kept returning to Amy Martens visit and the letter she had given him. Finally, he had decided to share with Cecilia everything he had been thinking and doing, both officially and unofficially since the morning of Denny Martens' death. He didn't think it was unprofessional or a conflict of interest, since Cecilia was already privy to other confidential information through her involvement with the CSI unit.

She asked to see the letter, and he retrieved the copy from his briefcase. She read it, then offered her opinion that it was vague, and on the surface non-threatening, but agreeing that for Denny Martens to have kept it locked in a safe, coupled with his seemingly accident death, was at least mildly suspicious.

Cecilia was surprised to learn that Jim had never really accepted Denny Martens' hit and run death as an accident. To know that he also had his doubts about Elliott Keeth's death, and that in fact he believed the two were not only not accidental, but in some way related, was quite a revelation. Cecilia knew that she did not possess that thoroughly analytical quality, that sharp-eyed ability to see through and around things, to take puzzles apart and reconfigure them, that was such second nature to Jim. She admired the sharp workings of his mind, and his attention to details that would have escaped her.

She encouraged him to talk through his theories, and before Cecilia knew it, it was time for her to leave for the lab. Jim, ever the gentleman, walked her down to her car. He kissed her deeply, and thanked her for dinner and for being such a wonderful sounding board. They hadn't even made love, an act which both accepted as the premise for their relationship, but neither felt that the evening had been a waste. Somehow, realizing that they could take pleasure from one another's company, without physical intimacy, in a way that was just as fulfilling, was bittersweet, because of the emotional and intellectual compatibility that it implied.

After Cecilia had gone, Jim retreated to his office. His mind was too wound up to allow him to go to sleep. He opened Denny's file, going through and again earmarking all of the cases that Martens had either worked directly with Elliott Keeth, or where their investigations had crossed paths. There was a fairly long list, but Jim felt that it gave him a good starting point.

He was disappointed that Dana Asmundsen had not been able to confirm for him that Keeth had received a similarly unusual piece of correspondence to the one Denny had gotten. He needed something that would allow him to broaden the scope of his investigation, so that it would receive official blessing and the assistance that went along with that. If he could find just one thing to indicate that either man's death might just possibly be suspicious, that would give him leverage to have the full co-operation of the department at his disposal. While Jim had the authority to re-open Denny's case, he could not, at this point, justify allocating department resources other than his own personal manpower, to investigating it.

The letter that he had left at the lab wouldn't even be looked at for another day or two, Jim knew. But there was a possibility that Trace had had time to run tests on the contents of the bottle taken from Keeth's apartment. He called directly to the extension there.

"Trace. Hodges," came the curt voice.

"Hodges, it's Brass. I dropped off a whiskey bottle there earlier. Tag name Martens. Any chance anyone's had time to run it yet?" Jim asked. "I've got the case number if you need it."

"Actually, yes it's done. Hold a minute and I'll grab the report," Hodges said, his manner more co-operative. Brass waited. "Okay, here it is. Breakdown of the substance inside. Malted barley, acetaldehyde, acetic acid, ethyl acetate, ethanol lingnin, aromatic aldehydes, sugars, and acetic acid."

Malted barley was the only ingredient Jim was familiar with. "And what's that mean exactly?"

"Your whiskey bottle contained whiskey," Hodges told him simply.

"All those things belong there?" Jim wanted to know. He felt deflated. He had imagined that they would find residue of the Dalmane. Proof perhaps that Elliott hadn't mixed drugs and alcohol, but that potentially someone else had mixed them for him.

"Yes. Some originate in the distillate, others are reaction products of the distillate and the wood of the barrels," Hodges informed him. "But it was straight whiskey. Nothing else."

"Thanks, Hodges, I appreciate it," Jim told him.

"My pleasure, Captain. If there's anything else I can do for you, don't hesitate to ask," Hodges assured him ingratiatingly.

Brass hung up and stared at the two files on the desk in front of him. Was he on a wild goose chase? He hadn't realized how much he had been counting on the report to confirm his thoughts that an unsuspecting Elliott had been drugged. But it would appear that the other detective _had_ indeed deliberately mixed Dalmane and Crown Royal of his own volition.

Still...there was the letter, and until Jim could rule it out entirely as having no connection to Denny's death, he was going to pursue this. Rolling up his sleeves, he began making another list. All of the detectives that had worked cases with both Martens and Keeth during their years at LVPD. By the time he was finished, Jim's eyes had begun to burn. Tomorrow morning, he would check the database for anything unusual.

Settling into bed, Brass folded his arms behind his head, and closed his eyes. Surprisingly, his thoughts were not of the case, or even of Cecilia. He wondered instead about Sara Sidle, and her resignation. Jim had been dumbfounded initially, when Cecilia had told him what she had learned from Catherine. That Sara was leaving the unit. The more he had considered it though, he had realized that it wasn't actually so shocking.

There had been previous signs of both the personal and professional strain that Sara was under. Some of them Jim had witnessed himself. After an accidental explosion in the lab, during which Sara had sustained minor injuries, and Greg Sanders had been hospitalized, there had been a reckless streak in the young brunette. There had been one case, where they had served a search warrant on a suspect in connection with a murder case. Before Brass or the uniformed officers could clear the scene, Sara had burst in on the suspect. He had had a gun, and it was only dumb luck that he hadn't blown Sara's head off. Brass had been frightened for her, reacting angrily to her breach of protocol.

And there had been the drinking. Sara had shown up at a crime scene one morning, sucking a succession of menthol cough drops, her eyes hidden by dark glasses. Jim had been there enough times himself, back in the morass that had been his life in Jersey post his undercover stint. His marriage on the rocks. A virtual outcast among his peers. He'd looked for the answers to his own problems in the bottom of enough bottles, that he recognized the symptoms in the CSI. She had denied it at first. Then admitted that she had indeed had just a _couple_ after work, not expecting to be called in again off shift. He hadn't believed her, of course. But Jim had let it go. Hoping that by sharing his own weakness, he might help her confront hers. He'd let her know, he hoped, that he was there for her.

There had been other incidents that Jim hadn't witnessed, but had heard about. Episodes of insubordination. A DUI that Sara had just managed to evade, though there had been a suspension, and counselling. All of this pointed to a troubled soul. There was an unhappiness deep inside Sara. It had always touched Jim, bringing out his protective nature. Despite the toughness and apparent impenetrability of her exterior, he knew that inside she was floundering and lost.

A lot of it, Brass knew, had to do with Gil. Sara was crazy about Grissom. And though he always held her at arms length, it was clear that Grissom was affected by her. Gil was Sara's supervisor of course, and he couldn't be involved with a subordinate. But the problem was, to Jim's way of thinking, that Gil used that as an excuse not to have to deal with his feelings about Sara. Never letting her in, but never going quite so far as to entirely reject her.

As disappointed as Jim was to see the young woman go, as much as he would miss her, there was a part of him that rejoiced for Sara. He knew what it was to hold onto fading dreams long past their expiration date. Investing in something that had more holes than a collander, while all of that time and energy and effort continued to seep away. Living in a confused and draining limbo wasn't living at all. Sara deserved more. She deserved to be happy. And as long as she continued to drag along in the cold shadow of the immutable Gilbert Grissom, Jim didn't think she'd ever achieve that state.


	28. Chapter 28

Brass stared at the screen, his eyes narrowing speculatively, trying to ignore the icy cold snake that slithered up his back, winding around his spine, its serptentine path leaving a frigid trail in its wake, before it slipped around his ribcage and squeezed the breath from his lungs.

_Detective Joseph H. Takei. Deceased._

It was one of the names that Brass had cross-referenced from Martens' and Keeth's files, and fed into the database. He sat at his desk now, his elbows propped on its glossy surface, while his dark eyes scanned the entry. Detective Takei had last worked for the Los Angeles Police Department. Six months ago, he had died. There was no notation to indicate that his death had occured in the line of duty. So it had either been illness...or an accident.

Brass envisioned Joe Takei, as he had looked the last time Jim had seen him. Short in stature, lean but muscular, Takei had had intelligent dark eyes that looked out assessingly from oval, high cheekboned , Asian features. Quiet, hard-working, an introvert, Takei had always kept to himself. Joe had only been with the Las Vegas force for a couple of years, before moving out East. New York, Brass had thought. Evidently something had drawn the other detective back to the sunny skies and warm climate of the west coast, and he'd spent the last three years in California.

There was no cause of death listed on the file. Brass keyed in a new selection, and ran the name under active and inactive investigations, to see if there was anything about Takei there. There was nothing. There hadn't been a file opened at the time of Takei's death. Brass's heart thudded in his chest. He had to know how Joe Takei had died. Three men who had once worked together were now dead, two from apparently unrelated accidents. Two was coincidence enough to trigger Brass's radar. But three? He wondered why he hadn't heard about Takei's death at the time. Surely someone would have notified LVPD as a courtesy, since Joe had once been one of them.

Brass flipped through the Rolodex, found the number and dialed long distance. He got voicemail, decided against leaving a message, and instead waited to be rerouted to the main desk. He identified himself and asked to speak to the officer on duty. It wasn't long before a crisp, deep voice came on the line. Brass explained the purpose of his call, that he had recently learned of the death of an officer he had once worked with and was seeking to learn what had happened.

"Joe Takei, yeah, what a shame," the other man said. "Good cop."

"Had he been ill?" Brass queried.

"No, nothing like that. It was just a freak accident."

"An accident?" Brass could hear the strain in his own voice. _Hit-and-run? Fire?_ "What happened?"

To Jim's surprise, the officer became evasive. "Oh, an accident at home. Just one of those things," he replied vaguely.

_One of those things? One of what things? _"What?" Brass pressed. "A fire?" No response. He paused. "A fall?"

"Yeah, something like that," the man agreed, clearly uncomfortable.

Brass knew he wasn't going to get anything more, so he thanked the officer for his time and said good bye. He pondered the other cop's strange reaction to a normal, rational query. At least he had learned that it hadn't been an illness that had claimed Joe's life, that it was not a natural death. Here was another accidental death. One that had _preceded_ Denny Martens'.

Brass set the computer to cross-reference the work records of the three men to get a timeline of when all three had been at the Las Vegas precinct at the same time. Takei had been with the LVPD downtown precinct for just over two years, and Martens and Keeth had both been here during that time. He typed in a new set of parameters, so that the computer would make a listing of all of the cases each of the men had ever worked during that time period. He requested the search prioritize the cases that all three had worked together, and then search outwards from there, and arranged for a print out.

From this information Brass could obtain the names and ranks of the police officers who would have been involved in each of those cases, from the flatfoot on the beat, to fellow detectives. One of those names, Brass knew ironically, would be his own. He had worked cases with all three men in the past. Case notes would also give the names of any prosecutors or defense attornies whose paths the three men had crossed during their investigations. The printer ran for a long while, spitting out page after page, which Jim would have to comb through later.

He reached for the phone on his desk, and punched in switchboard. "Brass here. Can you connect me to the Los Angeles, California, Coroner's Office? Thanks." He waited a moment and then the phone began to ring in another state. Before anyone could answer though, he abruptly hung up.

Jim didn't even know if there had been an autopsy. And what he really needed was more than he could glean over the phone. Brass wanted to go to L.A. To talk to the people who had known Joe in recent years. To find out just how the other detective had died. He would have to run it past the Sheriff first though, he knew, sighing. To convince him that it was part of an active investigation into Denny Martens' hit-and-run. First he'd have to persuade Mobley that there should even _be_ an investigation into Martens' death. The Sherriff and he had only a very guarded professional relationship, and he couldn't stand Mobley as a man, but Brass would put his personal feelings aside in order to be able to pursue his hunch.

Suprisingly, Sheriff Mobley consented to bankrolling the trip to L.A. It was evident that while he had serious doubts that Brass was going to find anything criminal, there was enough just in the fact of the three recent deaths to raise some suspicion. Coupled with Brass' reputation for being a top notch detective whose hunches had borne out more often than not, and the fact that Mobley sensed that Jim was not going to let this rest, whether it was through official channels or not...and not wanting to be the guy with egg on his face if he denied the request and it later turned out that Brass had been onto something...the Sheriff gave his approval.

Brass was able to book a flight on American Airlines for that afternoon. He would have enough time to get home and pack an overnight bag, stop off at Cecilia's apartment to regretfully cancel their dinner for that evening, and then be on Flight 1059, departing from Las Vegas McCarran International Airport at three fifteen. By four-thirty he'd be in the City of Angels. And one step closer to getting some answers. Before he left the office, Jim dialed the long distance number again. This time, when he got voicemail, Brass left a detailed message.

By the time he was on the plane, sipping a Coors Light and staring morosely out the window at the clouds, Brass was fighting the beginnings of a tension headache. He couldn't get the images of the three cops out of his head. Takei. Martens. Keeth. All so vibrantly alive just half a year ago, and now all three existing only in the memories of those who had known them. Closing his eyes, he saw again the letter that Denny Martens had received, and the middle paragraph, committed now to memory.

_To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. And the wicked go free. Sometimes, there is a pivotal moment...where one is on the brink...where the future hangs in the balance of one choice, one decision. Where your error demonizes the innocent and unleashes the devil. But sometimes, too stupid to recognize the mistake, the inferior pat themselves on the back and go on and others must pay the price of their failure._

Something about the words was familiar, and it made Brass uneasy. Had they affected Denny Martens the same way? Is that why he had kept the letter? Had something similarly disconcerting hovered at the edge of Denny's consciousness? Brass balled his fists in frustration. He didn't even know if the letter had any connection to Denny's death. All he had were questions, and no answers.

Cecilia had been stunned to learn of a third accidental death among policemen who had once known one another and worked together. She was openly supportive of Jim's trip to L.A., telling him not to worry about their date and the short notice of the cancellation, and wishing him luck on his trip. Neither of them voiced what outcome they were hoping for though. Something that would help to put Jim's suspicions at rest...or something that would fuel them. The idea that the men might have been murdered, was something that had to be followed, but that neither wanted to contemplate fully. At the door as he was leaving, Jim had pulled Cecilia close for a tight embrace, then given her a long, lingering kiss, promising to see her again soon.

Before long the plane touched down at LAX, and Brass was hailing a cab. After going first to his hotel to register and drop off his bag, Brass headed anxiously to LAPD's Hollywood Division. Once there, he showed his credentials, signed in, clipped the visitor's pass to the pocket of his shirt, and took the stairs to the second floor. He paused outside the glass walled office, knocking the first notes of the _Dragnet_ theme.

Her back had been to the door, a receiver at her ear, and when she heard the knock, Annie Kramer swivelled her chair, a wide grin animating her pretty features. "I gotta go. I'll call you later. Let me know what else you find out." Then she was out of the chair, and around the desk, as Brass entered.

"Jimmy!" she exclaimed, her dark eyes alight. Annie reached for him, wrapping her arms around him in an affectionate hug. "I got your message. I can't tell you how good it is to see you!" She stepped back, holding onto his upper arms, tilting her head to the side. "You've quit smoking," she observed with a smile, sniffing at him. "Good for you."

Brass laughed. Annie had always hated that he smoked. "Yeah, several years ago now," he said proudly. "It's good to see you too," he smiled. "_Captain_ Kramer." He was glad for her promotion. Annie Kramer had been a young, idealistic patrol cop when he had first met her, back in Jersey. She'd joined the force when women were still trying to break into the ranks, and had to fight to be taken seriously, and to work twice as diligently to get any respect. She had always been ambitious, telling him that one day she was going to be Atlantic City's first female Chief of Police.

"I can hardly believe you're here," Annie continued. "How long has it been?"

Jim grinned. "I know it's been ages, I can see the years on this old mug when I look in the mirror, but seeing you now, it's hard to believe it's been that long. You look terrific, Annie, you've hardly changed a bit." And it was true, she hadn't. There were a few fine lines at the corners of her eyes, that hadn't been there before, and a maturity to her features, but otherwise she was as he remembered her. She was still trim, and her skin glowed with a healthy vitality. He was pleased to see that she still wore her brown hair long, parted in the centre, though it was streaked now with fashionable lighter highlights.

"You always were a charmer," Annie said lightly, though she was clearly pleased by the compliment. "Look, I know you're here for business, and that this isn't a social call, but I've put in a long enough day and if I stick around here, we're bound to be constantly interrupted," she began. "There's a great steakhouse not far from here. We can grab an early dinner, and we can talk." Brass was quick to agree.

The restaurant was almost empty at this time of day. After a quick consultation with Jim, Annie ordered draft, then requested that they be left alone for a while and stated that she would signal when they were ready for menus. The steakhouse reminded Brass of one of the places he and Annie used to frequent back in Jersey, when they'd had their affair. Dark, with subdued lighting. Walls covered with vintage photographs of stars of both the big and small screens. Old sports equipment above the square bar area at the centre of the room. Wood floors, tables and chairs. Along the back wall was a stretch of comfortable, private booths, also reminiscent of the place in Jersey. It was here that Annie led him and they slid onto the seats across from one another.

For a moment, Jim had an eerie sense of being transported back in time, and almost felt that he should get up and go to the phone booth at the entrance, dial his old number, and make some excuse to Nancy about having to work late.

Over a pitcher of beer, Brass filled Annie in on what had lead to his coming to Los Angeles. She listened attentively, sipping her drink, and though her features showed a range of emotions at each of his revelations, she reserved comment. "I think the three deaths are connected, even if they appear to be accidents," he finished. "What can you tell me about Joe Takei?"

"I'm sorry for the losses of detectives Martens and Keeth," she said first with genuine sympathy. Then without preamble Annie asked pointedly, "Are you familiar with autoeroticism?"

"Yeah," Brass replied. He had attended a conference a few years previously, where the sexual practice had been discussed. Autoeroticism involved an individual seeking sexual release in solitude, through self-pleasuring, often in conjunction with unusual and risky practices such as bondage, self-penetration, asphyxia, masochism, or other methods meant to enhance the sexual experience and eventual release.

It was calculated that between five hundred to one thousand deaths in the States each year, could be attributed to incidences of autoeroticism gone wrong, whether by electrocution, sepsis following bowel perforation, self-impalement, asphyxiation or crushing. Often wrongly ruled as suicides, it was important for investigators to be accurate in determining the circumstances and cause of death, not just from a law enforcement perspective, but also for bringing closure to bereaved families.

"You know what autoerotic asphyxiation is then?" Annie said, lowering her gaze and blushing slightly.

Brass nodded. Autoerotic asphyxiation was an extremely dangerous practice of self-strangulation, the purpose of which was to decrease the supply of blood to the brain, which was thought to enhance sexual pleasure. Typically, some sort of ligature was used. The inherent danger was that the partial asphyxia could often lead to a loss of consciousness and a loss of control over the means of strangulation, which could then lead to continued asphyxia and death. Brass could see where this was going. "Joe Takei?"

Annie looked at him levelly. "He had had rigged up a contraption, a system of pulleys and rope for self-strangulation, including some type of rescue mechanism, with a quick release lever. But something went wrong, it didn't release, and he lost consciousness, eventually strangling to death." She paused to take a drink. "As you can imagine, there is some stigma surrounding the practice. And death by sex, especially when it's just you and Hairy Palmer, is not the most dignified way to go."

She sighed. "He lived alone. Neighbours alerted police after his dog, who'd been left outside for a day and a half, began barking and howling, causing a real racket. A patrol car went around to Takei's originally for a nuisance call...noise ordinance...and then when he couldn't get an answer at the door, he called in to the station. Joe hadn't shown for work and hadn't called. The officer busted in, and found him in a special room he had set up in the basement. Naked. Hanging from a noose that was looped through pulleys attached to the wall. He'd been dead since the night before. There was...a camera with a timer set up on a tripod. It was off when the detectives got there, the card blank. But...there was an album. Other photos. Of Joe." Annie shifted in her seat.

Brass understood now why the officer on duty had been reluctant to answer his questions about how Joe Takei had died. It was probably a combination of personal embarassment at discussing the circumstances coupled with a desire to protect the dead detective's reputation.

"There was no investigation?" Brass questioned, though he knew there hadn't been.

"No," Annie replied. "There didn't seem to be any reason for it. It wasn't my case, but I read the reports. There was no reason to suspect foul play. There were no signs of forced entry. No signs of struggle. We didn't even consider suicide, because the release mechanism was clearly jammed. It was just an accident."

"Was it?" Brass wondered quietly.

Annie looked uncomfortable. "You know, at the time I was certain that it was. I had no reason to think differently. It was a sad and senseless death, but not something so terribly uncommon as to raise suspicion. But now...in light of what you've told me..." her voice trailed off and she shrugged her slim shoulders.

She drew a deep breath and went on. "The autopsy showed COD as asphyxiation, and the coroner ruled accidental death. We wanted to close it out fast...it made everyone real uncomfortable. It's one thing when it happens to people you don't know, it's easier to step back and depersonalize, and you get used to all the weird things out there. There are some things that hit too close to home though, that are just too much information...stuff you don't want to know about another cop, a guy you worked with. We didn't even call CSI in on it. That whole contraption just went out in the trash, as far as I know, once the next of kin was notified." She anticipated Brass's next question. "A sister, in New York. She had the body flown back east, sold the house."

Brass looked at Annie across the table, his expression inscrutable, pouring both of them another beer. "Could someone have jammed the release mechanism deliberately?" he asked, his dark eyes searching hers.

"I suppose it's always possible," Annie said reluctantly. "And I know how it looks...Takei, Martens and Keeth. It's quite a coincidence." She regarded Jim thoughtfully over the table, and he could see the indecision in her eyes. "Have you ever noticed though...about things happening in threes? It sounds corny, but it so often seems to come true. Natural disasters. Celeb deaths." She hesistated. "I can see why you'd be suspicious..."

_But he had absolutely nothing to go on. _Brass could read Annie well, and he knew what she was thinking. That his hunch made for an interesting conspiracy theory. That it would make a great television movie of the week, or perhaps a good paperback to take to the beach. But there was not a single shred of proof that any of the men had been victim to anything but dangerous proclivities, bad timing, and bad choices coupled with bad habits. Three unrelated accidents, with not a single thing to indicate possible foul play, and nothing to link them. Not location, not manner of death...only the fact that at one point, years ago, the three men had worked together.

Annie watched his eyes harden and reached across the table to touch the back of Jim's hand. "I'm not saying you aren't on to something, Jimmy. You've got the best instincts I've ever seen in a cop. If there is something...you'll find it. And I'll help in any way that I can."

Brass smiled half-heartedly. All that he had learned were the late Joe Takei's secrets. Nothing that would help him in an investigation that was going nowhere. Even Annie, who had a career cop's honed senses, only found the three deaths curious, not menacing. "Did you know him well?" he asked her.

Annie shrugged. "Joe was a loner. He didn't really socialize. I poked around a bit after I got your message, but no one really knew much about his personal life, just that he wasn't married. He was a capable cop. Nothing in his jacket to make him stand out, either in terms of commendations or reprimands. The funeral was back east, and no one on the force went, but we held a memorial service in the chapel, and those who'd known him paid their respects."

"I guess he never mentioned anything to you about a strange letter?" Brass asked, knowing that if Takei had, Annie would already have told him.

"No. But I'll ask around," she added. Her hand still covered Jim's and she gave it a squeeze. "You believe this letter Martens got is key somehow." It was a statement, more than a question.

Brass sighed his frustration. "There's something that I can't quite put my finger on." He shook his head. "I don't know how to explain it. Everywhere I turn, I hit a wall. You know why they call it a gut instinct...'cause you really can feel it inside, deep in your intestines?" She nodded her understanding. "Every cop sense I have is telling me there's more to this, Annie." He withdrew his hand and wrapped both around his glass, staring into the half-finished contents, watching tiny bubbles rise up through the golden liquid topped with the thin layer of foam. "I don't have anything. No crime. No suspect. No motive." Brass drained his beer then looked up at her suddenly, his dark eyes intense. "But I just _know_ something isn't right."

Annie watched as Brass reached up to rub the back of his neck. He was fighting a tension headache, she could tell. "Then if there is something wrong, you'll find it," she said with quiet finality. "But there isn't much more you can do tonight. Look, why don't we order and put this aside for a bit. Just chat and catch up. Enjoy a nice piece of beef. They do a great porterhouse here, that I know you'll like." She smiled encouragingly. Brass nodded and smiled back, and she raised her hand with a slight wave to catch the waiter's attention.

Annie was right, they did do a great porterhouse steak. Jim enjoyed his medium rare, with a dollop of A-1 sauce, a big baked potato, and a side salad. They filled in the years since they had last seen one another. Shared interesting and memorable cases, both the ones they had solved and the ones that got away. Talked about how their careers had progressed, and about the people they met along the way, the ones they had enjoyed and respected, and the ones they had despised.

It turned out that Annie had met Gil Grissomon a case a few years previously, when he had consulted with the department. She was intrigued by the criminalist, but clearly didn't understand him, and she seemed surprised that he was someone that Jim counted as a friend.

Annie asked about Ellie, and Brass admitted sadly that they were estranged. Clearly he was shouldering all of the blame for that situation. For all Annie knew, maybe it was his cross to bear. She knew that Jim loved Ellie, but the man she had known in Jersey had been pretty battered by life, and didn't have alot left over to give anyone. Not his wife, not his daughter...not his mistress.

Other than the mention of Ellie though, they did not talk about Atlantic City at all. Brass didn't want to remember those days. It had been a black period in his life, personally and professionally. There were no happy memories to recount. They talked around their personal history and the fact of their affair, alluding to it in a sanitized version of friendship.

Brass learned that Annie had never married, and found that he wasn't that surprised. Her work had always been the most important thing to Annie Kramer. It became apparent that, like himself, Annie didn't really have any friends, hobbies or interests outside of the job. They both poured everything they had into being a cop. It defined who they were. Other than the mention of Ellie and a few oblique references to Jersey, Brass found the conversation easy and pleasant. He and Annie spoke the same language.

They remained at the table talking long after they had finished dinner, and the restaurant had filled almost to capacity. They had ordered a second pitcher of beer, the greater part of which had been consumed by Jim. Finally, mellowed, he glanced at his watch, expressing surprise that so much time had elapsed since they had first gotten to the steakhouse.

"Well, I guess I should call it a night," Brass said. He smiled across the table at Annie. "Thanks for everything. It's been so great to see you again."

She propped her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her palms. "When you going back to Vegas?"

"Tomorrow, I guess," he admitted. Neither one of them gushed about how they would have to stay in touch, get together again soon, and the like. It wasn't going to happen. Not that they wouldn't want to. But they knew one another, and themselves, well enough to know that once the miles separated them again, and they were pulled back into their respective worlds, that would be it. There would always be a closeness there, Brass knew, a connection that neither time nor distance would ever completely sever. It might be several months, or another ten or fifteen years before he saw Annie Kramer again, but when he did, Jim knew they would greet one another just as warmly, with just as much pleasure, and fall into the same comfortable companionship.

Annie knew what Brass knew, and she felt a melancholy ache, a sense of loss at the thought of his leaving so soon. She reached across the table, and took one of his warm, broad hands in her softer, more delicate one. "Come home with me tonight, Jimmy," she said softly, and her brown eyes held his with a gentle longing.

Brass put his other hand over Annie's and squeezed. There had been a time when she wouldn't have had to ask twice. When there was nothing he would rather do than abandon himself to the pleasure of her embrace, her sweet kisses holding the world at bay. He shook his head reluctantly.

Her eyes widened momentarily in surprise, then narrowed again, as she stared at his left hand. With a crooked grin Annie commented, "I don't see a ring, and you didn't mention a wife. Not that you ever wore one, or that having a little woman at home ever stopped you before," she said with a sardonic smile, trying to hide the sting of his rejection.

Brass sighed. "I'm not married," he admitted.

"Well, it must be serious though," Annie said with forced lightness. "Unless you're batting for the other team now?" She raised an eyebrow then gave a short laugh to indicate that she didn't really believe his preferences had changed.

Brass could see that Annie didn't understand why he would turn her down. He could see the hurt in the depths of her dark eyes. A loneliness that he recognized. Her whole posture changed, with the loss of confidence in herself as a woman.

"You're as beautiful as you ever were," Jim told her sincerely. "And...I know that it would be great. But...there is someone. And I'm just not that man anymore."

Annie watched him struggle with his words. She had always adored Jim Brass, almost from the moment that she had first met him all of those years ago, back in New Jersey. When other cops had turned their back on him, for his part in breaking the corruption scandal, she had hero worshipped him. She had sensed his loneliness, both professional and personal. He had naturally been drawn to her, had needed the oasis she offered. Jim had never loved her, not really, not the way she loved him, Annie knew. Even though he had said the words. But he had needed her, and that had been enough for both of them for a time.

Strangely, it was the fact that she considered Jim Brass such a moral and ethical man, someone with great personal integrity, that had intially caught Annie's interest and made her fall for him. Somehow, she had never let the fact of their affair tarnish her ideal of him. It was easy to find excuses and justifications for what they had done. In reality, it wasn't out of character for Jim to turn her down now, if he was involved with someone. It had been out of character for him to ever have begun their affair.

Annie didn't want him to remember her as bitter and resentful. She fixed a smile on her face. "I hope she realizes what a lucky woman she is," she told him with a quiet earnestness.

Jim shrugged. How could he make Annie understand about Cecilia when he didn't understand it himself? All that he and the novelist had was a fling, destined not to last more than a few months. They had no claims on one another. There had been no talk of monogamy and committment. If Cecilia happened to run into an old flame while Jim was here in L.A. there was no reason to think that she wouldn't or shouldn't spend the night with him. Jim didn't owe Cecilia his fidelity, and she had never asked for it, nor promised hers.

But...as long as he was with her, Jim knew that he couldn't be with another woman. Not even Annie, who had rescued him from the pits of hell in that other existence, and given him his life again. Who had helped him to regain his confidence as a cop and as a man. He would always have a place in his heart for Annie Kramer. But as long as he was seeing Cecilia, however brief that time might be...there could be no place for Annie in his bed.

"It's complicated," Brass remarked, in lieu of an explanation.

Annie patted his hand then withdrew her own. "With men and women, it always is," she said.

Jim stood up and went around the table. He bent down, planting a kiss on the corner of Annie Kramer's mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment, and reached her arms around him for a quick embrace. "Be happy, Jimmy," she whispered, "you deserve it."

"You too," Brass replied, stroking her long hair for a moment. Then he straightened and looked down at her, his dark eyes tender. "Good bye, Annie."

As he crossed the floor towards the door, and the phone booth where he would call a cab, Jim considered her parting words. _Be happy._ It was a lovely sentiment, but Brass knew resignedly that happiness, at least in his own life, had always been such an elusive, transient thing.


	29. Chapter 29

_Thank you for your continued support. And it's always nice to hear from a new reader! Cathy._

"Hey guys, nice work on the Hatcher case," Grissom called from the doorway of the locker room, where Nick Stokes and Warrick Brown were preparing to go off shift. _"Oh the tangled web we weave..." _he intoned with a slight shake of his salt and pepper head.

Both men murmured their thanks. Earlier that night Detective Vega had arrested Jake and Emily Hatcher, wealthy self-proclaimed victims of a home invasion gone wrong that had resulted in the death of small time crook Len Rushton. Hatcher's business partner, Terry Evans, had also been arrested. While on the surface the case had seemed open and shut...disabled security system, known ex-con Rushton inside the home with a stolen gun next to his body...both Nick and Warrick had felt that something was off from the beginning.

Bullets recovered from the scene, one from the .45 which Nick had dug out of the doorframe where Jake Hatcher had claimed to be standing when the armed intruder shot at him, and the three from Hatcher's registered 9mm, two of which Warrick found in the walls, the third of which was responsible for Rushton's death and which Doc Robbins had removed from his chest, also seemed to support the Hatchers' story. But the behaviour of the couple themselves had triggered suspicion. They had seemed far too cool in the wake of such an incident, and their body language had indicated anger at one another.

The first evidenciary clue to the fact that the Hatchers were not being completely honest about what had transpired that night, came when Nick discovered that Jake Hatcher's clothing bore no gunshot residue, and Emily Hatcher's did, contradicting their story that it had been Jake who had shot Rushton. The couple had tried to explain the discrepancy by saying that even though they had feared for their lives and believed the shooting was justified, that Jake had insisted on making the statement that he had been the one with the gun, to prevent any possible ramifications against his wife.

It had been the wire cutters found in a drawer of the kitchen that had been key to solving the case. Warrick had matched the cutter marks to the wires of the Hatchers' high tech security system which had been breached that night. Jake Hatcher's prints were the only ones recovered from the cutters, as well as from the external security box.

Detective Vega, on the strength of the men's discoveries, had secured a subpoena for Len Rushton's telephone records. They showed multiple calls sent to and received from Hatcher's partner Terry Evans. After lawyering up, Evans had confessed that he had found proof that Hatcher was embezzling from their highly successful building and architectural firm. Rather than turn his partner in, Evans was blackmailing Hatcher. Hatcher was to sell Evans his portion of the company, for far less than it was worth, and to return the company's stolen funds, in exchange for Evans not going to police.

Wary of his partner, Evans had hired Rushton to go to the couple's home, and to exchange the papers that proved Hatcher's crime, for the money and for a signed agreement for the sale of Hatcher's interests in Evans-Hatcher Incorporated. Emily Hatcher, furious at her husband for jeopardizing their finances and her social standing, had interrupted the exchange. She had fired her husband's gun at Rushton, her second shot killing the man.

Together, they had agreed to cover up their crimes. While a shaken Jake Hatcher had taken the cutters and disabled his own security system, the cooler Emily had placed the dead man's gun...a gun that he had never even drawn...into Rushton's hand and squeezed off a single shot. Hatcher had then taken the evidence of his embezzlement and the papers for the sale of his interests to Evans, and run them through the shredder in his home office. Jake Hatcher's' cell phone records showed a single call to the home of Terry Evans, which had lasted five minutes in duration, at about the time of the alleged break in. That call had been made ten minutes before the 911 call that Emily had made from the Hatchers' land line.

Evans had confirmed that Hatcher had told him Rushton was dead, and that the couple was going to inform police that there had been a break-in. He had convinced Evans that if Rushton's true purpose in being there came to light, that Evans too would face charges of his own...blackmail and extortion. The two men had agreed to bury all of the wrongdoing, and to continue their partnership, each with a hold over the other.

It had been satisfying to both CSIs to piece together the true events.

"Hey Griss," Warrick called as the supervisor turned to go, "you hired anyone to take Sara's place yet?" His green eyes were coolly appraising.

Grissom looked from Warrick to Nick and gave a perfunctory shake of his head. "I've got someone coming in this morning for an interview though." This would be only the second one he had conducted since posting the CSI position. There had been a high degree of interest, but Gil had put off contacting the applicants, telling himself that he was only doing so because it was essential that he take his time and get the right person, the right fit for the team.

"Can't you do something, man," Nick said plaintively. "Convince Sara to stay?" His dark eyes held those of the older man.

"It's done, Nick," Grissom replied quietly. Turning his back to prevent further conversation, the supervisor strode away.

"You know, I still can't believe it," Nick said to Warrick, while he buttoned a clean shirt. "It seems like Sara's been here forever, I forget what it was like without her. I can't imagine coming in to work and her not being here any more."

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. I don't think I'll believe it 'til I see her turn in her badge and gun, and walk out the door for the last time."

"I guess we should do something for Sara, huh?" Nick continued. "A night out or something?" There was no enthusiasm in the suggestion, however.

"Yeah, I suppose we should," Warrick echoed dispiritedly.

Each man avoided the other's eyes, not wanting to see his own disappointment and sense of impending loss, mirrored there.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Do you want to grab breakfast?" Catherine asked Cecilia in the parking lot, as she paused before the big SUV.

"Thank you, but not this morning," Cecilia declined the offer. "I want to grab a few hours sleep. I told Jim I'd pick him up at the airport, just after noon." She smiled shyly at the detective's name, even though Catherine knew that Cecilia and Jim had been spending time together.

"I didn't even know he was out of town," Catherine commented in surprise, raising a finely arched brow. "It must have been a short trip, I just saw him night before last."

"He had to go to Los Angeles, to follow up on something he's working on," Cecilia told her.

Catherine felt an acute, though fleeting, sense of displacement. She had known Jim Brass for years, had worked with him closely, and counted him as a friend. Cecilia had only been here a short while, and yet she was closer to Jim than Catherine had ever been. And not just in a personal way. It seemed that Cecilia even knew more about what the detective was up to professionally.

A bittersweet envy welled up in the lovely criminalist. Catherine was happy for both Jim and Cecilia, even though their relationship was just short term. Catherine was glad to note the lightness in Brass's step, and the easing of that tension and perpetual gruffness that his worn features had so often carried. Though still as quick with a sarcastic comment, his snarky wit very much at the fore, Catherine had observed that his cynicism had receded somewhat. And there were a couple of mornings when she had come out of the lab and observed Brass and Cecilia together in the parking lot, and she had heard the co-mingled pleasure of their laughter. Normally, the instances where Jim gave unrestrained voice to his amusement, were few and far between.

Clearly, the pair were enjoying one another, and there was a closeness there that caused an ache inside Catherine, and reminded her of the loneliness of her own life. She had Lindsey, of course, and her daughter was her world. And she had her sister, and her mother too. Friends, as well. But there was no man in her life. There hadn't been anyone since Chris. Not since she had walked into his office in back of his nightclub, and found him screwing another woman. She'd had a few dates since, but there had been no one special.

"I envy you," Catherine admitted with a sad smile. She caught the startled, guilty look on Cecilia's face. "Not in that way, Jim and I have always just been friends. Though you know I think he's a great guy. I just mean...it's nice to have a man to share things with. Someone to hold." Her sapphire gaze was wistful.

"I wouldn't think you'd have any shortage of men willing to hold you," Cecilia replied with honest sincerity. "You're a smart, vivacious woman. And so beautiful. I've seen the way men look at you."

Catherine shrugged. "Thanks for the compliment." She hesistated, unsure of whether or not to continue, not wanting to sound vain, but feeling the kind of connection to Cecilia that made her want to share. "Sometimes, I think beauty isn't all that it's cracked up to be." She paused, watching for a telltale narrowing of the other woman's eyes, or some change in body language that would indicate that the writer was not receptive to hearing about how tough it was to be a beautiful woman. _Cry me a river._

But Cecilia stood there, her dark eyes warm and encouraging, and so Catherine continued. "All my life, I heard from my mother about how pretty I was. She was constantly saying it to me, and saying it to other people as well. I brought home decent enough grades from school, but she never really said much about that. She was always fussing with my hair and my clothes. She even entered me in a couple of those pageant things when I was a little girl. Even when I won, I hated them! She was always telling me not to worry, that a beautiful woman would always have a secure place in the world, and that there would be a man to take care of her.

"I guess I kind of had a skewed perception of self. I hardly bothered with my studies. If I didn't walk into a room and turn heads, I don't know where I would have gotten my sense of worth. I got into dancing to please an old boyfriend. I stayed in it, partly because of the money, and partly because I loved seeing that look in the men's eyes. The desire. I never felt that it was objectifying myself, not then at least. I felt a sense of...power. It's hard to explain really."

Catherine's eyes were unfocused with recollection. Cecilia listened with interest, valuing this insight into her new friend. Catherine reached to tuck a strand of strawberry blonde hair behind her ear, and went on. "That's how I met Eddie, through working in the club. He was a regular. A real charmer. It was one of those things...instant chemistry. Eddie was always telling me how he had an eye for beauty." Catherine laughed shortly. "Oh he had an eye for beauty, all right. And a few other parts of his anatomy as well. Only after we were married did I find out that I wasn't the only one to turn his head."

Cecilia felt a pang of compassion to learn that Catherine's ex had cheated on her. The criminalist gave a crooked grin. "Eddie's not the only one who betrayed me. The problem with a man wanting you for your beauty, is that too often that's all that he's interested in. It becomes the focus of his desire for you. And when that happens...it's only a matter of time. Because there will always, always, be someone more beautiful." Catherine sighed. "And yet knowing that, I keep picking men whose interest in me is shallow. Although," she confessed, "I have to admit my choices have been a little on the superficial side too." Catherine tossed her red-gold mane. "Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find a man that I can trust. Someone who is decent and who really cares about me for _me. _I'm not trying to downplay the importance of attraction. Without that, there can't be any of the other."

She sighed. "When I see you and Brass together, I think...it'd be nice to have that." Catherine's smile was tinged with sadness.

Even though the words had been meant as an acknowledgement of something special, Cecilia fought back a sense of panic and impending loss. It _was_ nice to have what she had with Jim. Like Catherine, Cecilia had been longing for someone special to share her time and enjoy life with. And now that she had found him, Cecilia couldn't imagine not having Jim Brass in her life. She tried to focus on the fact that she would be seeing the detective again in a few short hours, but beneath the anticipation, she could almost imagine she heard the sound of a ticking clock.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Thanks for coming, it was nice to meet you," Grissom said in conclusion, shaking hands with the tall, thin young man. Paul Tennyson's grip was firm and confident.

"It was a pleasure, Dr. Grissom," Paul replied. "I hope to be hearing from you." He gave an easy, charming smile, his grey-eyed gaze beneath a shock of curly, auburn hair, direct.

Gil watched the young man walk away down the corridor, nodding in greeting to two of the dayshift criminalists he passed along the way. As noteworthy as Paul Tennyson's resume had been, the interview had impressed Grissom even more. Educated at a top midwestern university, among the best in his class, Tennyson had spent the initial years of his career with the Denver, Colorado, police force. He had confessed to being quite happy with their CSI unit, and said that he hadn't been actively seeking to relocate. He had only stumbled upon the job posting by accident. Tennyson had been intrigued, the Vegas lab's reputation was among the top in the nation, and the Level Two CSI had submitted an application immediately.

Tennyson's supervisor, though clearly regretful that the young man might be leaving, had been glowing in his praise. Grissom had found himself surprised to be liking Paul, and realized that he had been prepared to be super critical.

Tennyson had done his homework. He had researched stats on the Vegas lab's solve rate, all of which was a matter of public record, and on their percentage of successful court convictions, expressing his admiration. He had gone even further and delved into the ratio of cases to investigators on a yearly, and weekly basis. Noting that there was a high degree of overtime expenditures, he had made sure to be clear that he had no problem working long hours, and that he actually enjoyed being on nights. He had familiarized himself with a couple of the lab's recent high profile cases, and in addition to asking pertinent questions, made educated, thought provoking comments.

In truth, Grissom had never interviewed a more promising potential employee in his career. He couldn't have found a more ideal candidate, and he sensed that Tennyson would fit in well with the personalities of the other members of the night shift. He knew that he should sign off on this one, and prepare an offer of employment, and call the young man at his hotel before he flew back to Denver.

So why then, did he remain sitting at his desk, staring into space, long after Paul Tennyson had left his office? Why was there no sense of satisfaction in knowing that he had found a worthy replacement for Sara Sidle? Why did he keep looking for flaws that weren't there, insisting to himself that the young red-headed forensic scientist was too good to be true?

Grissom didn't know whether or not Sara had found another job yet. She hadn't said and he hadn't asked. They had barely spoken since she had handed in her resignation, only exchanging a minimum of words as their work had dictated. Gil's face grew hot as he remembered how he had accused Sara of unprofessionalism. The truth was that he had been totally caught off guard, and his normal, rational detachment had eluded him. He had reacted emotionally to the idea of her leaving, an intense and immediate sense of personal loss channeling itself into an outward display of anger and criticism.

Once he made the job offer to Paul Tennyson, it would be final. Sara would be gone. From his lab, and from his life. That reality washed over Gil, leaving him feeling an ache that he had to acknowledge. Leaving him with thoughts and emotions that he had to contemplate at last. Rising abruptly, Gil knew that he had to talk to Sara. He wasn't sure what he would say, but the time had come that he had to say _something. _He would try to think of what that something would be, in his vehicle on his way to Sara's apartment.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

The intercom sounded, and Sara paused last night's episode of _Law and Order_ to answer it, wondering who could be down in the lobby. She was taken aback to hear the familiar voice.

"Sara, it's Grissom. Can I come up?"

Wordlessly, Sara buzzed him in, then stood in the open doorway of her apartment, her arms folded across her chest, watching until the elevator door slid open, and Gil stepped out. He stood uncertainly for a moment in the hallway, and they gazed at one another questioningly, until the door closed behind him again and there came the rumble of the elevator's continued journey.

"Come on in," Sara said at last, stepping back to admit him entrance. Her thoughts swirled as she tried to imagine what might have brought him to her. She crossed to the livingroom, where she shut off the VCR and turned off the television. "Can I get you something?" she asked, trying to keep her tone casual, as though Grissom's appearance here was the norm, and not something rare and portentious. "Coffee? A beer?"

"No. Thanks," Grissom replied.

Sara sensed tension in his voice. Moving a stack of forensics magazines from a chair, she indicated with a nod that he should sit, before settling back onto the sofa, one slim denim clad leg curled beneath her.

"I'm not disturbing you?" Gil asked hesitantly.

Her dark eyes regarded him coolly. "Grissom why are you here?" Sara asked without preamble.

He took a deep breath, and felt a nerve twitching in his cheek. He let it out with a rush. "Sara don't go."

Sara's heart galloped in her chest, and she fought for composure. "Why? Are you having trouble finding someone?"

He shook his silvered head. "It's not that. I don't want you to go. _I_ don't want you to go," he repeated, with emphasis. Gil felt the sweat that slicked his palms and beaded his forehead.

Sara's breath caught in her throat. How many nights had she dreamt of Gil coming to her with just such a confession? How many times had she fanatsized about him arriving at her door, and proclaiming his need for her? Too many times to recall, Sara knew. Seeing him sitting there now, clearly uncomfortable and out of his element, she could only stare back at him.

"Why not?" she asked, her voice no more than a whisper. _Because I want you. Because I love you, Sara Because I can't imagine life without you.. _Sara could hear the words clearly, as she had countless times in her imagination and waited for Gil to say them at last.

Grissom cleared his throat as though to speak, and then remained silent. Sara thought she saw longing in the depths of his blue eyes, and then they were guarded again, as he closed off from her. "You said one time that there was something between us...something we should explore..." His words trailed off and Gil paused expectantly.

Sara could sense what he was waiting for. For her to put into words what he wouldn't...or couldn't. It would always be that way, she knew with painful clarity. Grissom would never be able to meet her even half way. She smiled at him sadly. "And you said it was a bad idea." He winced, though her intent had not been to throw his words back at him in petulance. "You were right." Nothing had changed, Sara knew. All of the reasons she had finally admitted to herself that morning as she had watched the sun set...about why Gil Grissom was not good for her, and why her interest in him was unhealthy...still held true.

Oh, Sara still wanted him. She longed to go to Gil now, and to slip into his arms. She longed to feel his lips press against hers. Part of her wanted to make it easy for him. To let the words go unsaid, as though they were not important. To accept what little he could offer. That part of her was ready to say that he could tear up her resignation, that she wasn't going anywhere, and that she would stay as long as he wanted her to. That part of her was willing to accept so much less than she believed now that she deserved. Sara battled it back, pushing it deep down inside herself, feeling a phantom physical ache at the loss of Gil's imaginary embrace.

Grissom frowned at her in confusion, clearly unprepared for her reaction. "I thought you wanted me to..."

She held up her hand, stopping him in midsentence. "I don't want you to do anything. Nothing at all."

He sighed in frustration, shifting in his chair. He hadn't expected the calm and distant young woman who sat across from him now. Gil had thought that if he simply indicated that he wanted her to stay...wanted that as a man and not as her boss...Sara would beam her endearing gap-toothed grin at him and agree to remain. "Maybe you don't understand," he tried again, his brows knitting. "I want..." he bit down on his lower lip in consternation. "I'm willing to try. Us." There it was out. His brow smoothed a bit and he waited for her to comprehend.

"I'm not."

Grissom could hardly believe that he was hearing the words. After all of this time, after all of her overtures, Sara was saying that she didn't want anything between them. What did she want from him? Why was she leaving Vegas then?

Sara looked at him and gave a sad smile. "What I need," she told him quietly, "you just can't give. And what you have to give...is not what I want."

The self-realization was painful, and as their eyes held, Sara knew that Gil would never know how much those words cost her. With them came the final acceptance that her dreams of something between them had always been ephemeral. But there was also a sense of freedom. She was under Grissom's spell no more. Sara was able at last to face her life with the confidence that being honest with _herself_ had given her.

As Gil stood by the elevator, pressing the button and waiting for it to arrive, he listened for the sound of Sara's door re-opening. For her voice calling out for him to wait. But it never came. And it was only when he stepped into the small, enclosed space, and began his downward descent, that Gil finally had to face that not only was Sara leaving, but now that he had reached out to her at last...she had rejected him.


	30. Chapter 30

_The empty parking lot was dark. Only a single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from a pole in the far corner, illuminated the immediate space, while the rest of the asphalt, back where Jim ran, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, no diffused glow from other sources. Just the lightless void. He saw the figure emerge from the lot ahead of him, moving into the brighter area where the detective could just make out a dark ballcap and dark clothing. Clutched tightly in the man's grip was a woman's long, blonde hair, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. Then the figure was moving through the circle of light and heading off beyond the dimensions of the parking lot, dragging his trophy behind him. Jim Brass tried to shout out an authoritative warning, to insist the figure stop and wait for him, as he raced behind, but the words were trapped inexplicably in his throat. _

_There was a squeal of rubber on pavement, and Brass felt the immediate and disorienting displacement of air as the big SUV whistled past. Jim felt it but he couldn't see it, the vehicle didn't have its lights on, and it was only dumb luck that it hadn't mowed him down. He had to put his arms out to steady himself, tottering for a moment before he regained his balance. Angrily, a string of expletives erupted, as he found his voice again. The words were cut short by a sudden sickening thud, ahead and to his right. Brass veered in the direction, as sweat broke out on his brow, not from his physical exertions, but from the horrified understanding of what that crunching sound had probably meant. Someone else, also moving in the dark, had not been as fortunate as he._

_The leather tip of Jim's left shoe struck something, and then he was going down. He had a moment to brace for impact, to hold his arms out protectively, and to mentally prepare for the potential pain when he connected with the hard ground. Something soft and yielding broke his fall, and then his hands were slipping out in front of him, in something warm and wet. Brass went down on his chest, knocking the breath from his lungs with a sudden whoosh. He knew all too well what that coppery smell was, even before he could reach for the flashlight clipped to his belt and click on the beam._

_Jim recoiled in horror, scrambling backwards, away from the eviscerated body of the prone man. He dropped the flashlight, and as it rolled away from him, he was spotlighted in its glow. Frantically, the detective attempted to rub the blood and gore from his hands, against the front of his jacket, and onto the thighs of his pants. The panic was intense, but brief, and then his training took over and his body began to move on auto pilot. Brass picked up the flashlight again, sticky in his hold, and shone it onto the man's mangled form. _

_The man wouldn't be alive...couldn't be alive...but Jim had to check anyway. He reached for the man's neck, jutting at an unnatural angle away from his head, and pressed his fingers against the carotid artery. He was not surprised that it failed to throb beneath his touch. No one could survive injuries of this magnitude. The speeding SUV, its driver unable to navigate in the dark, had crushed the man's body while he was still on his feet, breaking bones and splitting flesh and skin. Surely the driver would have felt the impact, but he...or she...had just kept going. Jim's fury burned hot._

_The yellow-white light of the Maglite picked out the features of the man's face, remarkably undamaged compared to the carnage the rest of him had sustained. In shock and sorrow, Jim stared into the vacant eyes of Denny Martens. He gave a guttural cry of rage and disbelief._

_There was laughter in the dark beyond, a low, malicious chortle, and Jim's head snapped up. The empty parking lot was dark. Only a single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from a pole in the far corner, illuminated the immediate space, while the rest of the asphalt, back where Jim knelt by the body, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, just the diffused glow from the Maglite. He saw the figure emerge from the lot ahead of him, moving into the brighter area where the detective could just make out a dark ballcap and dark clothing. Clutched tightly in the man's grip was a woman's long, blonde hair, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. Then the figure was moving through the circle of light and heading off beyond the dimensions of the parking lot, dragging his trophy behind him. Jim Brass tried to shout out an authoritative warning, to insist the figure stop and wait for him, as he struggled to his feet, shoving the flashlight back into his waistband, but the words were trapped inexplicably in his throat._

_Jim was running hard, his breath hot and heavy, his heart jackhammering in his chest. Christ, he was getting too old for this. And he'd had maybe a few too many plates of pasta over the last decade, and a few too few laps around the track, to be engaged in such a laborious foot pursuit. Of course, he thought as he ran, his arms and legs pumping hard, it would be a hell of lot easier if he'd just give up the cancer sticks. Brass slowed his pace momentarily, raising his hand to his lips, pressing the filtered tip there. He inhaled deeply, revelling as the nicotine filled his aching lungs. Suddenly he pulled the slim, white cylinder from his mouth. What the hell? He'd quit smoking years ago! _

_Disgustedly, Jim flicked the lit cigarette away and to the left. Almost at once, a crimson pyre lit up the night, and Jim slowed and turned, stopping in stunned disbelief. It was a human form, engulfed in flame. A hideous, garbled moan escaped the tortured soul, as it thrashed around, somehow still on its feet. Its arms waved wildly in the air. The man...he assumed it was a man, or a very, very tall and broad-shouldered woman...was well over six feet, he gauged. Jim's gut spasmed as the stench of burning flesh assailed his nostrils. He opened his mouth in a silent, empathetic scream, as he imagined the excrutiating pain the poor soul must be in._

_There was no one around to help, no one to back him up, and nothing else to do. Even though there was no chance his efforts could be successful, and every chance he would be injured in the process, Brass flung himself at the human inferno. He aimed low against the legs, tackling the man and bringing him down. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth in anticipation of the searing pain to come, he pressed his own body over the larger form, and then rolled with it in a desperate and futile imitation of the familiar mantra...'stop, drop, and roll'. Pulling back only long enough to remove his suit jacket, Jim then began trying to smother the flames, while the body beneath the tweed writhed in agony._

_Amazingly, the fire seemed to burn itself out, just as suddenly and strangely as it had initially begun. Soon only tendrils of grey smoke rose into the area above the charred remains. Jim sat back, his head hanging on his bent knees, gasping for air, trying not to breathe through his nostrils. He sputtered and coughed up greasy, dark phlegm. Incredibly, he could feel no pain. Brass assumed, with the detachment of shock, that his burns were so severe the nerve endings had been seared. Perhaps that was a blessing._

_Once again, shaking fingers found the flashlight, and then Jim was crawling towards the blackened heap, unable to stave off some macabre need to view the victim of the conflagration in as much gut-wrenching detail as possible. Typically, the burn victim was curled fetally. The entire body surface was blackened, flaking away in chunks, leaving red and raw exposed flesh. Jim found himself praying that the poor bastard was dead. When his light swept up across the expansive chest area and onto the man's eerily undamaged face, Jim's jaw dropped. Even with features contorted eternally in pain, and the dead man's eyes rolled back in their sockets so that only the whites were exposed, there was no mistaking Elliott Keeth's identity._

_Brass began to shake, his whole body trembling convulsively. He had to look away from the burned man, to find something else to focus on. Clinically, he turned the flashlight on himself, inspecting his hands and forearms. Miraculously, though the fabric of his clothing had been eaten away in chunks, lapped at by the hungry, red-gold flames, Jim's skin, still stained scarlet with Denny Martens' blood, was unmarred._

_There was laughter in the dark beyond, a low, malicious chortle, and Jim's head snapped up. The empty parking lot was dark. Only a single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from a pole in the far corner, illuminated the immediate space while the rest of the asphalt, back where Jim knelt by the body, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, just the diffused glow from the Maglite. He saw the figure emerge from the lot ahead of him, moving into the brighter area where the detective could just make out a dark ballcap and dark clothing. Clutched tightly in the man's grip was a woman's long, blonde hair, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. Then the figure was moving through the circle of light and heading off beyond the dimensions of the parking lot, dragging his trophy behind him. Jim Brass tried to shout out an authoritative warning, to insist the figure stop and wait for him, as he struggled to his feet, shoving the flashlight back into his waistband. But the words were trapped inexplicably in his throat._

_Once more he was in pursuit, his quarry tantalizingly nearby. Jim raced through the dark, and by the time his steps had taken him to the lamp post, his sides were heaving and cramping. He stood in the illuminated blue-white circle that spread out from the tungsten bulb above. Bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, Brass attempted to suck in enough fresh oxygen to satisfy the indignant protests of his lungs. His peripheral vision noted movement, and a shadow fell across him from behind, intersecting his own._

_Jim whirled, withdrawing the 9mm with a speed and grace that would have been the envy of any professional gunslinger back in the Wild West. Holding it at chest level, his arms fully extended, he swept from right to left and back again. There was no one there, nothing to account for the shadow. Brass saw it again, from the corner of his left eye, and pivoted. He realized then that the shadow was not coming from behind or beside him, but from above. _

_He tilted his head back, and looked up. Suspended from thick rope, the end of which looped up over the metal arm of the lamp post, feet dangling just a scant six inches above Jim's head, was the naked body of a man. The body jerked and spasmed soundlessly, as it danced its death throes, casting changing shadows on the asphalt below. The body hadn't been there when Jim had first broken through into the circle of light, he was sure of it. Aware that the man was close to asphyxiation, Jim concentrated desperately on how best to get him down. He had no chair, no ladder, nothing to climb up on. And even if he had, he had no knife, no way to cut the rope. There was only one hope. Stepping back, raising the firearm in the air, Brass squeezed off a quick succession of shots._

_One or more found the mark and severed the rope, and the body fell to the ground in an ignominious heap. Jim rushed forward, his fingers scrabbling to unknot the lariat that crushed the man's larynx and cut off his air supply. His efforts were doomed though. The man had already expired before he'd even hit the ground. He cradled the man's head and looked down into the drawn features and expressionless almond-shaped eyes of Joe Takei. Brass shook his head in denial of the truth._

_There was laughter in the dark beyond, a low, malicious chortle, and Jim's head snapped up. The empty parking lot beyond was dark. Where Jim knelt, only the single tungsten lightbulb, shining high overhead from the pole to his right, illuminated the immediate space while the rest of the asphalt, back where the sound eminated, was blanketed by the night. There was no moon, no diffused glow from other sources. Just the lightless void extending out from the circle of light. Brass was suddenly aware, with an acute sense of impending doom, that he was terribly exposed._

_Backing away from the body, Jim half-rose to his feet, in a crouch intended to make himself a smaller target. He swung the gun in the direction of the eerie laughter, trying to keep his hands steady. Who was out there, in the dark? Why were these three men dead? He cocked his head, straining to pick up the slightest sound. A footfall on asphalt. The rustling of a pant leg. The inhalations or exhalations of the hunted who had become the hunter. The laughter came again, behind him this time, and the detective whirled. A sour sweat oozed from his pores, creating a greasy film on his face. It collected above his brow, spilling over into his eyes. The salt stung, but Brass didn't dare risk holding the gun in one hand alone, while using the other to brush the excess moisture away. He blinked his eyes rapidly, to little avail._

_There was laughter to his left, and then to his right just a split second later. No man could move that quickly. Were there two assailants? Or, gripped by fear, was he misjudging the direction of the sound? Miscalculating time, or space or distance? In confusion, he wheeled first one way then the next. Brass wanted to edge away from the circle of light, back to the relative safety of the dark, only he was afraid of moving closer to whatever waited for him out there._

_'Where are you? Who are you?' he wanted to shout indignantly, but the words were locked in his throat._

_The laughter grew louder. More intense. Closer. It pressed in around him from all sides, and even though he couldn't see it, he could feel it, the evil a palpable living thing that whispered across the exposed surfaces of his skin, raising gooseflesh. He thought he heard his name...one short, sharp syllable. And then a moment later, Denny Martens' corpse stepped inside the circle of light. Martens' head lolled on his neck, and his entrails dragged behind him, but his steps were determined. The strength went from Jim's arms, and the gun dipped for a moment, before he brought it back up with a supreme force of will. He didn't know what good it would do him, though. Even if he thought he could shoot Denny, as a act of self-preservation...well, Denny was clearly already dead. _

_Once more, Jim heard his name. He was surer of it this time. He heard it again, a deep basso profundo, clearer this time, the words echoing with mock sorrow. 'He's dead, Jim.' Then Elliott Keeth stepped into the circle of light. His eyes were still rolled back in his skull, their whites vivid against Keeth's mahogony features. As he moved there was a brittle, crackling sound, and then his left arm fell off, disintegrating into a pile of grey ash when it hit the asphalt. Instinctively, Jim swung the barrel of the gun towards Elliott. But he too was unmistakably a corpse and the bullets would offer no protection._

_By the time he heard his name again, Brass knew what to expect, and he stared in stupefied fascination as the naked shell of Joe Takei picked itself up from the ground and advanced towards him. Jim let his arms drop to his sides in defeat, and the gun dangled against the bloodied pant leg of his right thigh. They had him surrounded. If the trio of walking zombies meant him harm, if they intended that he join them in the next world, Jim had no defense against them.._

_As the three dead men moved another step inward, closing the invisible net around Jim, the laughter came again from the blackness. Rich with pleasure, it mocked his predicament. Anger surged through Brass' veins, temporarily overriding his terror. 'Where are you! Who are you!' This time, he heard the force and clarity of his own voice as it echoed through the empty parking lot._

_In unison, the three fallen detectives turned their heads, and Jim followed what would have been their line of vision, had the dead men been capable of sight. There, on the edge of the lighted space, was the figure in the ballcap and dark clothes that Jim had initially sought. The cap was pulled low, and he couldn't make out the man's face. Still clutched tightly in the man's grip was the woman's long, blonde hair, dirty and encrustsed with dried blood, her lifeless body splayed out behind her. _

_The man raised his arm then, and the woman's head came up. Where her eyes had been, were dark sockets, crawling with fat, white maggots. More of them wriggled through her nostrils, spilling out onto the pavement, and Jim's lips curled in disgust. When she opened her mouth, further clumps of larvae tumbled from the cavern within. Like the rustle of old parchment, lips as dry as dust formed around whispered words._

_'And the wicked go free...'_

_It was only when Denny Martens' hand descended on Jim's shoulder, that he finally started to scream._

Jim measured coffee grounds and spooned them into the basket. It was only just past four a.m. but there would be no more sleep for him tonight, he knew. The nightmare had left its residue on him. He was jumpy, edgy, his senses on full alert. It had been a particularly disturbing and gruesome dream. He had woken with a physical jerk, in time to hear the pathetic cry of terror that issued from his throat in a choked and ineffectual wail. His body was drenched in perspiration, and his heart pumped the blood through his veins in double time.

He had turned towards Cecilia, surprised to find her still asleep and apparently undisturbed. Jim had eased himself from the bed, fumbling through his drawer in the dark to get a clean pair of pajama pants, before slipping quietly from the bedroom and down the hall to the main bathroom. He lost track of how long he stood in the shower, under a spray as hot as his skin would allow. There was a chill deep in his bones and it seemed at first that he would never get warm. Jim let the water sluice over him, while thick clouds of steam billowed around. He pressed his palms against the front wall, bowing beneath the showerhead, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal.

All that he retained of the nightmare were vague impressions of the three dead detectives, an overwhelming sense of horror, and the memory of five, whispered words. '_And the wicked go free...'_

Cecilia had picked him up from the airport the previous day. Jim had been so glad to see her, elated when he picked her lovely bronzed features out of the crowd. They hadn't spoken of what he had learned in L.A. until they were back at his apartment. Cecilia had been unsure of what to make of the new information, but accepted his belief that there was something more sinister here. She had stated that if indeed the three seemingly accidental deaths were linked, and were actually murders, that the ramifications of that, and the cool deliberateness of it, were chilling.

They had made dinner together, working side by side in his kitchen. Roast pork loin with apricots, mashed potatoes, gravy and asparagus. Since Jim had the day off, and Cecilia the night off, they enjoyed a bottle of white wine with the meal and a couple of liquers afterwards, snuggled together on the sofa, listening to music and talking about things other than police work, forensics, and the deaths of the three detectives.

Later, in the satiated afterglow of shared passion, Cecilia's back tucked against his chest, a relaxed Jim had drifted uneventfully off to sleep. While there were many nights that he found it difficult to turn his mind off, that night rest had come easy. His final thoughts had been pleasant ones. So he had been surprised to wake in the hours of early morning, with the fractured, unpleasant images in his head. He knew that he dreamed, everyone did, but Jim often could not recall any of his imagination's nocturnal musings.

He sat now at the kitchen island, sipping his coffee. As he watched the steam rise from the surface of the hot brew, Jim had a fleeting impression of a charred human form, from which curled grey plumes of smoke. He shook his head as though to clear the intrusion of the unwelcome imagery. It wasn't so surprising really, he thought, that coming on the heels of the deaths of three former colleagues...all of whom had died tragic, painful deaths...he should have haunted dreams.

_'And the wicked go free...'_

It was a line from the letter Denny Martens had received. Something niggled at Jim again. Skirting the edges of his thoughts. He struggled to recall more of the dream, and to place the whispered words into the context of the nightmare. But the details were vague...emotional impressions, and random, heart-wrenching visuals. If the dream had had a plotline, it was lost to Jim now. If his subconscious had been trying to send him a message, he hadn't been able to grasp it.

He gripped the mug with both hands, his lips pressed thinly in vexation. He was missing something, Jim knew.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

_The gaunt figure, seated at the formica-topped kitchen table, clasped the whiskey bottle, feeling the weight of it in his hands. He brought it to his nostrils and inhaled the pungent scent of the liquor. A slow smile spread across his thin face, and then he laughed heartily, in an expression of self-satisfaction. He wondered if they had found the bottle he had switched on them. He doubted that there had even been an investigation. The Laughlin papers had reported 'accidental' death. But just in case...he had covered his tracks. These dimwits were no match for his genius._

_He stared out at the darkness, knowing that most of the city was still in peaceful repose. He found that he himself needed little sleep these days. Slumber was just a waste of time anyways. There were still things that needed to be done._

_Keeth had had to settle and old debt. And the only way to pay for it properly had been the forfeiture of his life. He envisioned again the fight that had come into the middle-aged man's eyes at the end. And then, finally, gratifyingly, the realization that he had been bested, and most importantly...the fear._

_He pushed the Crown Royal bottle aside and drew the piece of newsprint towards him. Every day, he would take it down from its place on his fridge. He studied the grainy, black and white images of the mourners at Denny Martens' funeral. He wondered how the grieving widow and half-orhpaned boy were getting on._

_Picking up the ballpoint pen, pausing his perusal to enjoy the satisfaction of the hole that had once been the headshot of the late Detective Elliott Keeth, his eyes searched out that other visage. This one. This was the one that held his interest now. How many sleeps would he grant this one? How many days or weeks until another score would be settled? Another accident prematurely terminating a life. _

_But in those final moments, it would be his face his prey would see. And his victim would know. The last thought to echo through his head would be the understanding that his own shortcomings had caused his death. He imagined that face, the eyes wide with desperation and pleading. With the knowledge that to the world his death would appear an accident, and would go unavenged. Justice denied._

_He whispered the name, over and over. Savouring the sound of it on his tongue. Pressing pen to paper, he began to circle the image, faster and faster, exerting greater force, until that portion of the newspaper photograph separated from the images around it._

_And then there was one..._


	31. Chapter 31

_Thank you for continuing to read and review. I appreciate it, and it pleases me to know that others besides myself are enjoying this story. And how nice to pick up another new reader. I hope that the story continues to hold everyone's attention. Cathy._

"Take a seat and get comfortable," Brass said wryly with a tired smile, as he passed out large, styrofoam cups of coffee to Grissom, Catherine and Cecilia.

Catherine glanced questioningly at Gil, whose expressionless features gave no indication as to why the supervisor had paged her and asked her to meet him at Brass's office. Then she looked back at the detective who stood leaning against his desk, looking at the trio reflectively. There was a subtle tension in the room that made Catherine uneasy.

Cecilia had never been in Jim's office before, and she gazed around curiously. She was struck by the number of commendations, plaques and awards that were grouped on the walls, and placed on the shelves of the wall unit behind the desk. Cecilia felt a surge of pride in Jim's accomplishments. She would have liked to have gotten up and studied them more closely, asking the detective the stories behind each one. Her eyes moved back to his, and she noted the fatigue that deepened the crevices in his brow and tightened the set of his mouth.

Jim had been gone from the apartment when Cecilia had wakened at half past seven that morning. She had found a brief, apologetic note letting her know that he had had to go down to the precinct. He had indicated that he would call her later in the day, but she had not heard from him. She had assumed the job had just kept him very busy. Cecilia had been surprised when Catherine had told her about Grissom's page. The writer had expected that Jim would have been home and in bed hours ago. Looking at him now, at the puffiness beneath his dark eyes, and the redness that tinged the corners of their whites, she wondered just how early he had been up and out of the house that morning. Then she wondered why he had assembled them here.

Brass took a long swallow of his coffee, seeming to consider his words before beginning. "When Denny Martens was killed, I just had this hunch that something was not right. And then when Elliott Keeth died, the feeling got stronger."

Catherine's eyebrows arched in surprise. Brass had not indicated to her at the time of Denny's funeral that he felt something was off, and he had not said anything when he had brought them news of Elliott's death about thinking the two might in some way be related. That he believed that there might be something more to the deaths came as a complete shock to her. Catherine felt a chill run down her spine. She looked quickly from Grissom to Cecilia and from their expressions she knew that this was not the first time they were hearing of Jim's intuitions, not for either of them. Catherine had a moment of feeling like an outsider and she wondered why Jim had not brought her into his confidences as well.

Brass read the hurt in Catherine's sapphire eyes. He addressed her directly. "I had nothing to go on. There wasn't a single valid reason for feeling the way I did. I couldn't see upsetting everyone without cause." He looked at her imploringly, hoping she would understand. The fact that a former colleague might have been murdered was not the kind of suspicion to be tossed around lightly. Not when people were grieving and saying their good-byes. Not without something more to go on than a hunch.

"And now you have reason to think there is some connection?" Grissom asked. "To question whether or not the two deaths really were accidents?" Gil trusted Brass, and knew that there would have to be something pretty compelling to have made him decide to have them gather here. But he had seen the report of Elliott Keeth's death and there had been nothing whatsoever to indicate foul play.

What was Brass conjecturing? A suicide pact of some sort, perhaps? That maybe Martens' and Keeth's deaths hadn't been as accidental as they appeared? That perhaps the two men had had a hand in their own demise? Was it possible, however unthinkable it might be, that Denny Martens had deliberately walked out in front of a speeding SUV? That Elliott Keeth had purposely drugged himself with Dalmane and whiskey before setting his apartment on fire? What could possibly prompt such extreme acts?

"I think they were murdered," Brass said, putting it out in the open, unknowingly putting any end to Grissom's speculations. He watched Gil frown, and Catherine's eyes widen. Cecilia, of course, already knew of his theory. But she leaned forward expectantly in her seat, clearly curious as to why he could finally make such a momentous claim. "Not just Denny and Elliott. Another cop too, another detective, Joe Takei."

Grissom and Catherine were stunned by these announcements. Brass recounted for them his discovery that Takei had died several months previously, including his own trip to L.A. and what he had learned there. Wordlessly, they took in the information.

"Nine years ago," Brass continued, "Martens, Keeth and Takei all worked out of this station. They investigated a serial case together...referred to it at the time as the Holiday Murders." He watched for recognition from Catherine and Gil, but there was nothing. He was not surprised. It was a long time ago, and it had been a dayshift case. The lead CSI had been Conrad Ecklie.

"The first victim was found in early September. She'd been sexually assaulted and then bludgeoned. The coroner placed the time of death at around Labor Day. The body of the next victim was discovered the first week of November. Coroner said she'd died around the end of October, likely the 31st. Hallowe'en. A third victim turned up three weeks later, the day after Thanksgiving. She'd only been dead twenty-four hours at the most. Labor Day, Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving...hence the Holiday Murders." Brass paused, reaching to rub the back of his neck, and letting them absorb that information.

"Why am I not remembering this?" Catherine questioned with a frown. "Even if it was a dayshift case, seems like it would be pretty big news. And serial killers are few and far between...thank God."

"Nine years ago this fall," Grissom mused consideringly. Then he raised his silvered head. "That was about the time the Johannsen girl went missing," he said with understanding.

"Yeah," Brass nodded. "Made the national headlines for weeks. Even though the Holiday Murders was a local story, it pushed it off the front pages."

Catherine remembered the Johannsen case. An eight-year-old girl in Dallas, Texas, had been abducted from the bedroom of her family's sprawling ranch home. The father, Erik Johannsen, was a wealthy, successful developer. A self-made millionaire. His wife Laurel, a beautiful Dallas socialite, was old money, and heiress to the Stanhope Oil fortunes. Their only child, daughter Kendra, a pretty, pixie-faced red-head, had been tucked into bed one night by her doting parents, and discovered missing the next morning when her mother went to wake her for school. There were signs of forced entry, and a struggle.

There was no ransom note, no contact by the child's abductors. While the nation waited and worried about the little girl's fate, her parents' private lives were exposed and splashed all over the news. There was just the right mix of money and scandal to capture the attention of Americans across the nation. Drug use, shady business deals, and marital infidelities were all the talk around office water coolers. For two weeks Kendra Johannsen's school portrait would flash across television screens nightly, until there wasn't anyone in the country who wouldn't recognize her. Her devestated parents made public pleas for their daughter's return.

Then one day Kendra's strangled body was found in a dumpster in a seedy area of downtown Dallas, and a nation mourned. Now the headlines asked 'Who killed Kendra?'. A week later police arrested a man in a San Antonia motel room and charged him with the child's murder. There ensued a media circus of huge proportions, when it was discovered the man had ties to one of Erik Johannsen's former mistresses. The trial date was set with unusual promptness and eventually both the man and the ex-mistress were convicted of orchestrating the kidnapping and of murdering the little girl as an act of revenge. The day after the sentencing, police received a 911 call to the Johannsen home. They found two bodies in the kitchen. Laurel Johannsen had shot her husband to death before turning the gun on herself.

"Kendra Johannsen," Catherine murmured.

"I remember that as well," Cecilia remarked sadly. She recalled the worried discussions she had had with other teachers in the staff room, the prayers that the little girl would be returned unharmed. And then their shock and sorrow when the child's body had been found.

"The Holiday vics were nobodies," Brass continued. All understood that this was not his personal feeling, but that he was speaking from the point of view of the media. "A hooker, a supermarket cashier, and a cocktail waitress. They didn't even realize, initially, that the second murder was connected to the first, so there was no big warning put out by the Sheriff's office, and it wasn't exactly the talk of the town."

"You think those murders nine years ago have something to do with these deaths now?" Catherine asked incredulously, wondering what the connection could possibly be.

"I'm certain of it," Brass responded, though there was no triumph in his pronouncement, only a dull acceptance. He wanted to give some background first, before he explained how he had reached that conclusion. He reached for a thick file on the desk and slid it towards himself. He picked it up and opened it, slowly paging through the contents before looking up at them again.

"The first murder, the pro, didn't fit the same victim profile as the second, which was one of the reasons the two murders weren't linked at first. She was single, no kids. Twenty, black, and new to the city. Jada Miller. The other girls on the street knew her, but she didn't even have a rap sheet in Vegas yet. There were signs of sexual activity, though no semen, but the coroner couldn't substantiate sexual assault. There were indications of rough sex, but whether or not it was consensual was hard to say. Apparently she'd had multiple abortions, and there was a lot of internal scarring. The cause of death was head trauma. A single blow to the back of the skull fractured the bone and drove a chunk into the brain. Her body was discovered in an alley off the Strip.

"The next vic was thirty years old. Caucasian. Blonde. Married mother of two. Worked as a cashier in a grocery store. Marilyn Hegel. Her car was found in the desert, her body in the trunk. She'd been beaten with a tire iron, also in the trunk. There were signs of rape. Bruising, and a vaginal tear. No ejaculate.

"The third vic was forty-two. Caucasian. Brunette. Divorced. Mother of a teen boy who lived with his dad in Reno. Cocktail waitress at the MGM Grand. Beth Marchison. Found at home by a friend and co-worker who was supposed to give her a ride in to work. Raped. This time there was pre-ejaculate but no semen, nothing for a DNA match. She had bruising about the face, someone had taken his fists to her. She'd received blows to the head with a blunt object, one to the temple being fatal."

Earlier in the day, Brass had studied the crime scene photos of the three deceased women and their images were fresh in his mind's eye. Almost a decade had passed since their murders. He wondered how the family and friends left behind to cope with the tragedies, were doing, and for a moment he closed his eyes.

Brass stood up then and began to slowly walk the room. "Martens and Takei pulled the first murder. Keeth the second. By the time the third body showed up, they knew they were working the same case and had combined their efforts.

"They had a suspect, someone they'd been watching after they started investigating the second victim's death. The cashier. There was a co-worker, a grocery clerk, and her husband said that the guy had been inappropriate on a couple of occasions. Cornering her at work in the stock room. Making suggestive comments. She observed that he often switched his shifts in a way that coincided with her schedule. The was never anything substantial enough that she went to her boss, or the police. But she told her husband and a couple of the other cashiers she worked with. The husband had decided to go in and have a little talk with the guy, but before he could the wife turned up dead. The grocery clerk's name was Todd Juneau."

The three listened attentively while Brass paced restlessly. His dark eyes took on a glazed look as he went back in history.

"Ecklie recovered a print from Hegel's car, on the roof above the driver's side door. He ran it through AFIS but didn't get a match. After Keeth questioned other employees at the supermarket, one of the women from the deli department gave a statement that she had seen Hegel and Juneau in the parking lot together the day that Hegel had gone missing. They appeared to be arguing, and though she wasn't absolutely certain, she thought that she overheard Hegel yell, 'I'm telling you for the last time, stay away from me!'"

Catherine envisioned the scene. The woman angry and probably frightened. The man persistent. She'd been in a similar situation herself, years ago. Having to fend off a guy's persistent, unwanted attentions. Having her personal space invaded. She remembered the predatory look in the man's eyes. And then one of the bouncers at the strip club had convinced the guy he had better leave Catherine alone. She could empathize with Hegel, even though the other woman had been dead for almost a decade.

Brass went on. "Juneau was picked up and brought to the precinct where he allowed himself to be fingerprinted. He was questioned, and denied knowing any of the vics except Hegel, who he claimed was a friend. There wasn't enough to hold him, so he was released. The fingerprint from the car came back a match to Juneau's. On the strength of that and the deli clerk's statement, a judge issued a search warrant for Juneau's locker at the supermarket, and for his home and vehicle."

Brass stopped moving about the room and perched on the edge of his desk again, facing them. "In addition to a big collection of porno mags and videos...real violent triple X stuff," Brass said distastefully, "they found multiple photographs of Marilyn Hegel. Not posed shots, but taken from a distance. Many at work. Coming in and out of the supermarket. Outside on her break. There were close ups of her chest and bottom. More disturbing, there were photos taken outside Hegel's home, her doing yardwork, or at a nearby park with her kids. The guy had obviously been stalking her for a while.

"Apparently Juneau pulled into the end of his street and saw the cruiser parked in his driveway, and the detectives taking boxes of stuff out as evidence. He panicked and took off. Didn't show up at home or work again. There was a warrant out for his arrest. Two days later, cops got a call from a buddy of Juneau's, one of the guys he worked with. Juneau swore to the other clerk that he hadn't hurt Hegel and didn't know anything about the other women. Said the cops were framing him." Jim rolled his eyes at that. "He wanted to borrow some money, and arranged to come in after the store had closed. The guy knew that Juneau was wanted by the cops, and he phoned it in. So, they were there to arrest him.

"Juneau broke free and started to run. There was a pursuit through the parking lot. Juneau suddenly whirled and reached for his pocket and withdrew a gun. Takei shot him twice in the chest, rapid succession and Juneau went down without getting off a shot. He was killed instantly. Turned out he had a toy gun. No idea what the guy was thinking. Internal Affairs investigated, and the detectives' statements were confirmed by the grocery clerk who witnessed what happened. It was determined to be a clean shoot."

Jim arched his neck, rolling his head tiredly to release the tension and fatigue. "The suspect was dead. The killings stopped. The living went on with their lives."

"Except that nine years later, the three detectives who investigated the murders all die within several months of one another," Catherine interjected. "There must have been more than just one case that the three worked on together," she insisted. "Cases that never even got solved. Why are you focusing on this one?" Her blue eyes were direct.

"This is where it gets interesting," Brass continued. "Juneau mailed a letter to the cops after each of the murders. More or less taunting them to catch him. I've got copies here, I'll show you in a minute. There was a recurrent theme in those letters. Insisting the cops do their jobs, and contain the evil. Saying that the murders were their responsibility, because it was their ineptitude that allowed the wicked to stay free."

Cecilia's eyes widened.

Jim looked at her briefly, and gave a barely perceptible nod. "Amy Martens found a letter in Denny's safe. She brought it to me. It is very reminiscent in style and wording to the Holiday Murder letters. But she had no idea how long it had been there. She'd never seen it before. Though it seems unlikely, Denny could have had it for years, and received it way back at the time of the Holiday Murders. But I don't buy that, because he would have turned it over as evidence. We need to determine how long ago that letter from Denny's safe was written. I sent it to the lab for handwriting analysis, when I suspected that it might have something to do with Denny's death. Ronnie hasn't gotten around to looking at it yet.

"Then this afternoon, I got a call from Captain Kramer in L.A. She'd worked with Takei, and is the one who told me about the circumstances of his death."

_Jim had almost refused to answer the strident, insistent ringing of his phone, engrossed as he was in going over the old file. Finally he had picked it up, speaking a curt, "Brass."_

_"Jimmy, it's Annie." There was an edge to her voice.. "I think you really are on to something." Brass's pulse rate increased. "I was talking to Ray Fender, he was Takei's partner at the time Joe died. Ray remembers that about a month before Joe's death, Joe showed him this letter he'd gotten. It stuck with him, he says, because Joe was always such a loner, and never talked about anything outside of work._

_"But he had this letter. Ray could see Joe was bothered by it, and Joe wanted Ray's opinion. Ray didn't think too much about the letter itself. You know how cops get threats all the time, and this wasn't even an overt threat, Ray says. Just kind of weird. Something about asking how well Takei slept at night. And about making mistakes and being too stupid to know it. Ray didn't think it was anything to worry about, and Joe ended up throwing it out." Annie paused. "Jimmy, what the hell could possibly be going on here?"_

_"I don't know," Brass had admitted. "But I'm going to find out."_

_"I want in on this," Annie insisted. "If Takei was a victim of foul play, then this is my case too."_

_He had agreed to keep her apprised of things, not yet sharing that he was revisiting the old Holiday Murders case. Wanting to wait until he had something more definitive to tell her._

Brass relayed his conservation with Annie Kramer.

"The partner couldn't remember the exact wording, but the letter sounds just like the one Denny Martens got. So I'm betting that Denny received his letter about a month before _his _accidentAnd even though there is no proof of it yet, and might never be, I'd wager that Elliott Keeth got a similar, if not identical, letter as well.

"I'm no handwriting expert, but these all look pretty similar to me." Brass handed Gil copies of the original letters police had received following the Holiday Murders. "Now, I'm not a big believer in re-incarnation or in ghosts..."

"So if these _were_ all written by the same person," Catherine continued, leaning over Gil's shoulder, to get a look at the letters, "either Juneau had a partner..."

"Or he wasn't responsible for the Holiday Murders," Grissom finished.

Brass nodded. "I need Ronnie to verify whether or not these were all written by the same person."

"This doesn't make sense though," Catherine mused. "Why start the killings again nine years later? And why the detectives who'd worked the case? Why make the deaths look like accidents? Is that even possible?" she wondered aloud. "Denny, okay, someone could have run him down deliberately, but Elliott Keeth and Joe Takei...those were determined to be accidental deaths, weren't they?"

"I don't know _why_," Brass admitted. "It's a big missing piece of the puzzle. But it is _possible_ that Elliott's and Joe's deaths weren't what they seemed to be. Someone could have tampered with the failed release mechanism. And someone could have drugged Keeth and started that fire."

"I thought that the tests they did in Trace failed to detect anything other than whiskey in that bottle you took from Elliott Keeth's apartment," Cecilia expressed with surprise.

Catherine remembered Jim removing the Crown Royal bottle from Keeth's apartment the day of Elliott's memorial service. She hadn't realized that he had sent it for testing and frowned now.

Jim sighed. "Yeah, it did. I can't explain it."

"It could never be entered as evidence, even if you had found something," Catherine said flatly.

"Yeah, I know," Jim agreed. "But it would have given me some proof that there was something more going on. It would have been suspicious and pointed to possible foul play."

Grissom studied the sheets of paper. "Assuming this letter Amy Martens gave you is recent, someone, either involved in the original crimes, or with knowledge of them, created this letter that came from Detective Martens' safe. Obviously it wasn't Juneau. But it would mean that someone out there has resurrected the spirit of the Holiday Murder case. Revenge seems the most likely motive. But why now? Why after all this time?" He reread the words. "This passage...it could be interpreted to mean that the cops got the wrong guy. That the real killer is still free."

Gil read it aloud, the words that Brass had memorized. "_But sometimes, you fail. And the wicked go free. Sometimes, there is a pivotal moment...where one is on the brink...where the future hangs in the balance of one choice, one decision. Where your error demonizes the innocent and unleashes the devil. But sometimes, too stupid to recognize the mistake, the inferior pat themselves on the back and go on and others must pay the price of their failure._" Grissom handed the letters to Catherine, who bent her red-gold head to read them.

"Yeah, I thought that too," Brass agreed. "But the killings stopped after Juneau's death. The fingerprint on Hegel's car was his. He didn't have an alibi for any of the other murders. A psychiatrist who reveiwed the materials taken from Juneau's home profiled him as a likely suspect. The hooker, Miller, was a trial run. Hegel was the intended victim. Then the perp got a taste for blood and went after Marchison." He shrugged his shoulders uncertainly.

"Each of the detectives involved in the Holiday Murders is dead. And these letters, the originals and the one Denny got, look, at least on the surface, like they were written by the same person," Catherine said consideringly.

"Or by someone who was familiar enough with them to try to copy them," Gil suggested quietly.

"We have to reopen the case," Catherine said with finality.

Brass nodded. "I already have. And I'd like you and Gil to be the CSIs on this one. I'm asking, as a favour."

Grissom and Catherine exchanged a quick glance. Gil was attentive, the mind behind his blue eyes already working on the mystery. Catherine's own eyes glinted with interest and excitement at the thought of a puzzle to solve. For the moment, they looked at the case dispassionately, with the clinical curiosity of forensic scientists.

"There's one last thing," Brass told them with an off-handed casualness. Only Cecilia picked up on the shadow that flickered across his dark eyes, and the way that his hands clenched the edge of the desk. "There were four detectives working the Holiday Murders. The fourth one is still alive."

"And who is the fourth cop?" Catherine asked with quiet forboding.

Jim gave a thin smile. "You're looking at him."


	32. Chapter 32

_Repeated thanks for those of you who continue to read and review this story, and for your kind and generous praise. And again, how nice to pick up a new reader! I am really enjoying writing 'And Then There Was One', and I feel privileged to be able to share it with you. Cathy._

Chapter Thirty-Two

"Wow, it got real quiet in here all of a sudden," Brass said with forced lightness. "Was it something I said?" he quipped, as he brought his cup to his lips, and sipped the lukewarm brew, lowering his gaze to the highly polished tiled floor. He didn't really want any coffee, he just needed something to do, something to concentrate on, so that he could have a valid reason to look away from the shocked, unsettling stares of the trio seated across from him.

Cecilia had been intrigued as she had listened to Jim relate the case of the Juneau murders. Just as she had that night when she had watched him interrogate Michael Strickland, Cecilia enjoyed watching Jim at work, and in his element. She was so impressed that he had found the link between the deaths and validated his suspicions, even as her heart sank to realize that the three detectives had been murdered, their lives unfairly cut short. She had envisioned Jim hunched over the files, his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking for connections, and tenaciously digging for something tangible to support his intuition. Finally beginning to unravel the mystery.

But now, Cecilia stared at the detective, her normally tanned features waxen and pale. Her extremities felt icy, and as she moved to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and her fingers brushed her face, she was aware of how cold they were. She was surprised when Jim mentioned how quiet the room had gotten. For Cecilia, the blood that surged through her veins...pounding in her head...made a cacophanous, whooshing sound in her ears. Surely the others could hear it, so loud was the sound of her near panic.

Four men had worked the Holiday Murders nine years ago, and now three of them were dead. If someone was seeking to systematically murder the detectives involved with the case, contriving to make their deaths appear like accidents, then there was no reason to believe that he or she would stop there. Not with one of those four police officers still alive.

Cecilia watched with a curious detachment, as small, black flecks danced across her line of vision, while the blood continued to roar in her ears. Her limbs felt rubbery, no longer under her control. Her breathing was too fast, and too shallow. Cecilia realized that these strange sensations signalled the onset of fainting. She gripped the arms of the chairs, and closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing hard. She would _not_ embarass Jim this way. Making a concerted effort, Cecilia fought to steady her breathing, and regain her equilibrium.

_Jim was in danger! _The idea of something terrible happening to him...and Cecilia couldn't even frame her thoughts any more concretely than that, not beyond a veiled suggestion of _something terrible_...rocked her. She concentrated on the memory of how it felt to be in his embrace, to feel his strong arms around her, and to hear the steady beat of his heart beneath the dark hairs of his chest. Surely nothing...or no one...could steal the warmth from his solid frame, and cause that brave and caring heart to cease pumping. But to even know that somone might _try_...that there could at this moment be an unknown enemy out there seeking to do just that, scheming to do Jim harm...that was just too terrible of a thing for Cecilia to contemplate.

"Have _you_ received a letter like this?" Catherine was asking Brass, holding the copy of the letter taken from Denny Martens' safe, in the air. Her blue eyes were narrowed suspiciously. She leaned forward in her chair, her body tense.

She knew that if he had, Brass would already have told them so, but Catherine had to ask anyways. She stared at her old friend with concern. Despite how outwardly cavalier Jim was being about all of this, she knew that he had to be worried. It was just Jim's style to downplay any threat to his own safety, however. But Catherine could see the tightness in his craggy features. He understood the enormity of the situation.

"No," Jim replied simply, looking up at Catherine for a moment, his dark eyes inscrutable.

"Then it's only a matter of time," Grissom remarked coolly.

Gil had been stunned by the turn of events. That this investigation was precipitated by the deaths of three men, three detectives who had worked right here at LVPD, and that it had ties to a serial killing spree of the past, had been information that he had eagerly absorbed. Grissom had been engrossed by the retelling, fascinated by what Brass had learned and how he had pieced things together. Gil had regarded the case as a giant puzzle, and looked forward to contributing his own talents towards a successful resolution. At the very least, it would be something to take his mind off of the disasterous exchange he had had with Sara, and the less than enthusiastic hiring of Paul Tennyson that had followed it.

But now, this was not just another case. There was a very real threat here, towards the life of a man that Grissom had come to know and respect. Someone that he cared for, as much as Gil disliked admitting his emotional involvement.

_Then it's only a matter of time. _"Yeah." Brass acknowledged Grissom's prediction with a heavy sigh, trying to muster the semblance of a smile.

_"Expect trouble as an inevitable part of life and when it comes, hold your head high, look it squarely in the eye and say, 'I will be bigger than you. You cannot defeat me.' "_ Gil gazed at the detective. "You know what you're up against. You have knowledge that Martens, Keeth and Takei didn't. Even with the letters, they didn't realize the true extent of the threat. You can take the steps that they didn't. And now that we're on to what's happening, we'll find out who is responsible for their deaths." The forensic scientist spoke with quiet assurance.

"You can't minimize this!" Catherine protested, frowning at her supervisor. "Three very smart, well-trained detectives were killed. Someone got past their defenses. And he was clever enough to make it look like an accident. We're dealing with someone who is maliciously cunning." Her cornflower blue eyes were wide. "I think you should go on vacation, Jim. Just leave Vegas for a while. Until we can sift through the evidence and nail this guy." Catherine looked at the detective, perched on the edge of his desk, and felt an ache, deep inside. Jim Brass was her friend. It had been hard enough to bury Denny Martens and Elliott Keeth. She couldn't imagine having to say good bye to Brass too, especially not under circumstances like that.

"I'm not going to run and hide," Jim rejected coldly. He folded his arms across his chest, frowning at her. "I'm working this case, and I'm going to see it through to the end."

"Even if it's the end of _you?_" Catherine asked in exaspiration, stress causing her voice to rise.

Brass gave an exaggerated wince. "Give a guy a little credit, will ya? I've managed to stay alive this long. And I've been in some pretty tight spots before."

Catherine knew he was talking about the undercover work that he had done back in New Jersey. She knew that he was more than capable of handling himself in the face of an open and overt threat. But what of the threat that he might not see coming? One that he might not be able to recognize or even conceive of? Catherine's eyes sparkled, damp with emotion.

Brass tilted his head and smiled kindly at the blonde, understanding that she was worried and that she cared about him. He was touched by the level of her concern. "I'll be careful," he assured her. "I have no intentions of checking out just yet." He winked.

The smile died on Jim's lips as his gaze shifted to Cecilia. Her pallour alarmed him. His first instinct was to move to her chair, to put his arms around her and pull her into the protective circle of his embrace. But that wouldn't be appropriate. Cecilia wasn't here as his lover. She was here as a writer, shadowing a CSI criminalist. When Jim had called Grissom, asking Gil and Catherine to meet him at his office, the detective had known that Cecilia would accompany them. He had thought that it would be easier to share what he had learned with the three of them in the room, all at one time, and to present it as a case in progress, rather than to have to tell Cecilia later, when they were alone. To have to tell her not as a cop, but as a man.

The intensity of her fear for him, moved Jim. In all the years of their marriage, through all of the dangers he had encountered in his career, he had never seen this kind of haunted expression on Nancy's face. Not even after he'd been shot, and rushed to the hospital, and his wife had been called to his bedside. Jim was used to worrying about other people, not them worrying about him.

_'And the wicked go free...'_ The litany had continued to replay in Jim's head over and over that morning. The familiarity of the words had taunted him. He had known that he had heard them before, or something similar, and he knew that they were pivotal to discovering what had really happened to the three detectives. Jim had left the apartment before dawn that morning, with Cecilia still slumbering temptingly in his bed. He had felt driven to examine the old cases again, the ones that Martens, Keeth and Takei had shared in common.

Brass had gone through the unsolved cases intially, of course. It had made sense that if there was a connection to the past, it would involve one of the cold cases. He had read through them, one after another, with a thorough intensity that strained his eyes and gave him the beginnings of a headache. But he had persevered. _And the wicked go free. _The words were familiar to _him, _Jim knew. They were personal. And so he had turned his attention to the cases that he had worked in conjunction with the dead police officers.

_How could he have forgotten? _Jim had wondered, when he had first opened the Juneau file. The floodgate of memories had broken, washing over him like the swirl of moving waters. He was back in time, Martens, Keeth and Takei all vividly alive, all four of them a decade younger. Martens and Takei had pulled the Miller murder, the dead prostitute. Brass and his partner Elliott Keeth had been the detectives assigned to Marilyn Hegel's murder.

When the second letter had come into the station, they had realized that they were working the same case, and that they had a situation on their hands. They had pooled their talents, and a round-the-clock investigation had begun. By the time the third victim had shown up, they had begun referring to the killings as the Holiday Murders.

As Jim had sat at his desk, rereading the old letters and comparing them to the one that Denny Martens had received, he had already begun mentally composing what he would say to Amy Martens. He would have to let her know that he was re-opening Denny's hit-and-run as a homicide investigation. He had promised that if anything came of the letter, he would keep her apprised. He knew now why Denny had kept the letter. He could understand the vague sense of disturbance that Denny must have felt when the other detective had read it. Also recognizing that it was familiar, but not quite understanding why or how.

Jim had kept himself busy all day, reading, and making notes. Busy enough to keep from thinking about the full import of what he had discovered. That had been his intent at any rate, although he hadn't been entirely successful. Thoughts of how he would be the next target, continued to encroach. Especially once he had received Annie's call, confirming that Joe had received a similar letter to Denny's just a month prior to _his_ death.

It wasn't until he had made the call to Grissom though, and sat waiting for Gil, Catherine, and Cecilia to arrive, that Jim had finally allowed himself to accept that his life might be in real danger. He had sat pondering that unpleasant thought. Everything pointed to the fact that whoever the unknown assailant was, who had orchestrated the deaths of three of the detectives that had worked the Holiday Murders, he or she wasn't likely to be satisfied with culling only three quarters of the group.

Jumbled with those thoughts were ones of self-doubt. Had Juneau had a partner? Was someone involved in those murders still at large? Totally unknown and unsuspected by the investigators? As far-fetched as it seemed...could they have gotten the wrong man? Could Juneau have been innocent of the killings, as he had claimed? The more Brass had gone over old memories, the more he realized that the proof of Juneau's guilt was mostly circumstantial. But the killings _had _stopped.

At least...until several months ago and the death of Joe Takei. One by one the other detectives from that case had been eliminated. And now, there was only one left.

Seeing that knowledge now in Cecilia's eyes, and sensing her fear, was sobering for Jim. He wanted to say or do something to comfort her. But anything he could offer her would be a lie. He could not downplay the danger. The moment he did that, he might start believing it, and then he could leave himself vulnerable.

Jim needed some sort of contact with Cecilia, though, and he wanted to offer her some sort of reassurance. So he stood up again, and began to stroll around the three who were seated. He paused behind Cecilia's chair, and put his hand on her right shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Hoping to communicate the things that he could not put into words. She reached up for a moment, to wordlessly touch his hand, and Jim noted how cold her fingers were.

"It's way past my bedtime," Jim began, moving away again and circling back around to once again stand in front of the others. "I'm gonna call it a day. I have a copy of the file for you, Gil. Handle things any way you see fit. I don't know if you can get anything done tonight, but I'll check in with you tomorrow morning."

"Ronnie's in then, and I'll have him do a handwriting analysis to compare the letter Denny Martens received, with the others from the Juneau case," Gil replied.

"We'll have to go over any old evidence connected in the Holiday Murders," Catherine stated, all business again. "There are a couple of new tests we can run now that weren't available nine years ago."

"I leave things in your capable hands," Brass smiled. "Thanks, guys. Oh, and if you could keep this as hush-hush as possible, I'd appreciate it. Try to bring as few people in on it as you can. We may still be looking at someone on the inside as a suspect in the recent deaths, and I don't want to broadcast what we're doing."

Grissom and Catherine nodded their understanding in unison. The three who had been seated now rose.

Gil moved towards the door. Catherine hesitated a moment, hanging back, looking closely at Cecilia. "Uh, I just want to talk to O'Reilly about that robbery case," the strawberry-blonde said. "I'll be a few minutes, if you want to wait here." Her knowing sapphire gaze went from Cecilia to Brass.

Cecilia smiled gratefully at the other woman. She knew that Catherine was just giving her a moment alone with Jim. She watched as the criminalist pivoted gracefully and strode off down the hall. Cecilia turned back towards Jim who moved now to take her into his arms. Cecilia laid her head on Jim's shoulder, circling her arms around his waist and holding him tight.

Jim felt Cecilia tremble. "Hey," he said gently.

Cecilia raised her face, her eyes dark and wide, stark against the paleness. Tears shimmered in their velvet chocolate depths. "I'm afraid for you," she whispered, her voice strained.

Jim kissed her forehead. "Forewarned is forearmed, they say," he replied, striving to keep his tone level and confident.

She nodded at the cliche. Then Cecilia's lips were on his, with a kiss whose passion and intensity stole his breath away. "Be careful," was all she could say. Anything more, and she knew that worry and emotion would overcome her. She clung to him, wanting time to stop.

Jim held her, his face against her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of his own shampoo. He closed his eyes, trying to ingrain the feel of her soft contours pressed against his body, to memorize the silkiness of her bronzed skin, and to capture the husky tones of her sultry voice. He wanted to remember it all, to imprint it on his memory so that he would never forget. He wanted Cecilia to know of the wonder and joy she had brought to his life, how her prescence had made it now a thing worth living, his own existence more valuable to him than it had ever been before. Jim wanted to tell her that now, more than ever, he didn't want to die.

But instead he said simply, "I will."

Jim looked over Cecilia's shoulder to see Catherine standing in the doorway, back already. He wondered how long he had stood there, just holding Cecilia in his arms. Catherine's smile was soft, understanding, and Jim didn't feel the need to part from Cecilia guiltily or with embarassment. Reluctantly, he slid his arms from around her, and kissed the corner of her mouth.

There was nothing more said, as Catherine and Cecilia headed back to the lab, and left Brass standing in the middle of his office. On his own again, Jim felt the solitude now as a loneliness deep in his bones.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim heard the knock, and rolled over in bed, pulling the pillow over his head to muffle the intrusion. Drowsily he cracked open one eye, and saw the sunlight streaming through the partially opened slats of the blinds. Obviously he had gotten some sleep, but it didn't feel like it. He felt disoriented, still caught in the plateau that separated slumber and cognizance.

The knocking came again, the pounding more insistent now, and this time Jim snapped fully awake. He sat up in bed, the covers sliding down to expose his bare chest. His heart thudded wildly, and he reached for the loaded gun on his night table. Taking a deep breath, he realized that anyone who stalked him was not going to come knocking on his door. At least...not likely.

Jim swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and padded down the hall to the front door. His muscles were bunched and coiled with a wary tension. He retained the gun, though the safety was still on, and it dangled at his side, and not up and ready to fire.

He was exhausted, and as he passed the hall mirror, he noted the dark smudges beneath his red-rimmed eyes. Not even Visine was going to help those babies, Jim thought idly. He had come home from the precinct last night, after talking to Grissom, Catherine and Cecilia, feeling as though he could tumble into bed and sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Perhaps if he had just laid down then, not even bothering to undress, let alone hop in the shower, he might have dozed off.

But he hadn't done that. And after cleaning up, and slipping into pajama bottoms, Jim had returned to the kitchen, and poured himself a generous measure of scotch. As he stood at the counter, looking at the cut crystal glass of amber liquid, and then at the half-finished bottle of Chivas that Cecilia had sent him that day, his gut had suddenly spasmed. He remembered the bottle that he had taken from Elliott Keeth's apartment, and his suspicions that someone might have added sleeping pills to the whiskey, so that they could overpower an unsupecting Keeth.

Jims' hand shook as he poured the liquor down the sink. He recapped the bottle of Chivas, and then opened another cupboard and took out an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. He poured himself a new drink, then wandered into the livingroom to stand at the big window that overlooked the city. The refrigerator made a soft whirring and clicking sound then...the kind of noise that it regularly made, and one that he normally wouldn't even have noticed...and Jim started. He had whirled, sloshing some of the whiskey out of the glass.

_Christ, was this how it was going to be?_ he had thought angrily. Afraid of his own shadow? Suspicious of everyone and everything? Not even feeling safe and secure within the walls of his own home? Jim had run one hand over his face, and then back through his thinning hair. He hated the sense of vulnerability that had been steadily growing ever since he had realized what he was up against.

When he had entered the lobby to pick up his mail, it had been with trepidation that Jim had removed the contents from his box. He'd had a moment to wonder if he should be wearing gloves, to preserve any possible trace evidence _if _the ominous letter was there. But it hadn't been. Just a cable bill and some junk mail. One day though...one day he would go to his mail box and it _would_ be there.

But just because he hadn't received it yet, didn't mean that Jim was safe in the interim or that he should let down his guard. Knowing that, knowing the position that he was in, was infuriating to the detective. He wasn't supposed to be the victim. He hated the doubt and...yes...the fear.

He had cleaned up the spilled drink, and then sat on the sofa, no music or television to distract from the unpleasant thoughts. Jim had sat there for hours. Thinking about the many possible ways that you could kill a man. Wondering when an attempt would be made on his life. How it would be made. He'd refilled the glass more than a few times, staring into its bottom as though seeking wisdom and knowledge there.

Jim peered through the peephole now, looking out and seeing Cecilia standing in the hallway. He set the gun on the hall console, covering it with a magazine, and quickly undid the deadbolt and the lock, wondering why she hadn't let herself in with the extra key. And then glancing at where the 9mm rested, he understood. It wasn't wise to come in quietly on a man who knew his life was in danger...a man with a gun.

When Jim opened the door and stepped back to let her in, Cecilia felt weak with relief. When she had left the lab that morning, and driven over to his place, stopping at Mama Talia's for two orders of bacon, lettuce and tomato on a bagel, Cecilia had had to stave off a horrible premonition that she was going to arrive at the detective's apartment and find him dead. When he hadn't answered her initial knock, she had grown more certain that something horrible had happened to him, and so she had pounded fearfully on the door.

She hadn't used her key initially, because she didn't want to sneak up on him if he was sleeping. His senses honed for danger, Jim might mistake her for an intruder. Cecilia didn't honestly believe that Jim would accidentally shoot her, but she didn't want to do anything to startle him. She had just been on the verge of opening the door herself anyway, and had the key in her hand, when she had heard the deadbolt turning.

"Jim!" she exclaimed, happy to see him standing there, alive and unharmed. Cecilia threw her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead against his, while the bag containing breakfast rested warmly against the back of his neck. She felt the tension in his frame, and was not too greatly surprised by it.

"Hey," he said tiredly. Then drawing back a little and turning his head apologetically. "Morning breath."

Cecilia laughed as her arms slipped from his neck, and she kissed him on the lips anyways. Then she observed how fatigued he looked. And she felt guilty for waking him. "I'm sorry," she said apologetically, "I should have waited til later this afternoon. I woke you, of course."

Jim shrugged his shoulders. "Not a problem."

"I brought breakfast," Cecilia said, more relaxed now that she had ascertained that everything was fine with the detective. She had been worrying about him all night. "BLT bagels from Mama Talia's." That was the deli where Jim had picked up the chicken soup for her when she was sick, what seemed like eons ago. "I'll put on some coffee." She smiled warmly.

"You shouldn't be here," Jim blurted suddenly.

Cecilia coloured. "I won't stay long. I know you need to rest. It was selfish and impulsive of me to come over so early. I'm sorry, Jim."

"I think you should just go," he replied quietly. But there was no mistaking the forcefulness of the suggestion, or the narrowing of his dark eyes.

Cecilia bit her bottom lip. She felt awful. The coldness that he was emanating did not seem like Jim Brass. Not the Jim Brass she had come to know and care for. "Of course," she mumbled embarassedly. "I'm so sorry," she repeated. She stood there, wrists crossed, clutching the small, white paper bag. "I'll see you later?" She hadn't meant it to be, but it was more a question than a statement. Jim was acting strangely and it made Cecilia nervous.

He looked at her, his dark eyes holding hers. "I don't think that's a good idea," Jim said brusquely. Her eyes widened and he forged ahead. "There's a lot going on right now."

Cecilia nodded and bowed her head. She couldn't begin to imagine all that Jim was dealing with. "I know. I want to help you. In any way that I can. I'm here for you, I hope that you know that." She paused, looking at him longingly, understanding that Jim Brass had come to mean more to her than she might have wanted, or could have imagined. "Jim, I..." Cecilia had been about to finally put her feelings into words, to say, _I love you._

"Look," he interjected, before she could get the words out. "I'm really glad that we got to know one another. I've had a great time. But we both know this was just short term."

Cecilia felt sick. What was Jim saying? They had never spoken about where their relationship might head. Had never talked about the fact that initially she had come to Las Vegas only for a few months. She had believed that he had come to care for her as more than a fling, just as she had for him. She couldn't imagine her life now without him a part of it.

She reached for his hand, and when his fingers didn't curl around hers, she let it go.

"You're a wonderful woman," Jim said, and she thought she saw his eyes soften for a moment, before they hardened again. "The timing is just not right. I'm going to have to give my full concentration to this case. I'm sure you can understand that. There's a real danger here."

For a moment, Cecilia thought that Jim was worried about _her. _"I'm not afraid," she insisted.

"Listen," Jim said, and now his voice was tinged with anger. "I can't afford any distractions!"

Finally Cecilia accepted what Jim had been trying to tell her. Whatever had been between them was over. In Jim's mind it had only been temporary to begin with. There was a big case to work now, and a very real threat to his life. And an occasional roll in the hay with a woman whom he was counting on being gone soon anyhow, was not worth a risk to his personal safety. No matter what his motives, Jim was right, she conceded. Cecilia would rather deal with the pain of not seeing him again, than to have her prescence make him careless, and possibly be a catalyst for his death.

Tears filled Cecilia's eyes, blinding her as her fingers rooted through the bottom of her purse for Jim's key. How could she have been so totally wrong about him though? How could she have been so foolish as to think he had really cared? How had she let him wend so deeply into her soul? She had come to Las Vegas to do research for her novel, a confident, happy woman...and she would be leaving humiliated, her heart, and her dreams, shattered. Cecilia recognized the small, hard steel shape and extracted it, plunking it down on the hall console, along with the bag containing the breakfast she had brought for them.

"Take care," she whispered hoarsely, before fleeing the apartment.

The door closed, and Jim leaned against it, his head resting on his arm. He drew ragged breaths, waiting for his pulse to slow. Worrying, until he knew that Cecilia would be back in her car and driving away. Last night, sitting in the quiet, while he had been thinking up ways that someone might try to kill him, it had suddenly occured to him that Cecilia too was in danger. So far, only the detectives had been targeted. No one else around them had been killed. There had been no collateral damage. But what if that were to change? What if, not really caring whether anyone else was hurt or not, the killer made a move against Jim while Cecilia was with him?

His blood had run cold at the thought of anything happening to her. He was an anathema to her now. There was too much of a risk to her safety, if he continued to see Cecilia. The reality was that he was destined to lose her one day. She would be going back to Erie soon. It was better to break things off now, to make sure she would stay away from him until it was time for her to return home to Pennsylvania. Jim knew that it would have been painful enough when the time finally came to say their good byes. He had been thinking of approaching her with the idea of his relocating, if Cecilia didn't think Vegas was somewhere she could make a home. But even if she had rejected him, at least she would be alive, happy somewhere, even if she was not with him. That would be hard enough to deal with. But to lose her so irretrievably to death...that thought was more than Jim could bear.

He had had to be sure that she would stay away. And so he had let her think that it was his own life that concerned him. If he had let her know what truly troubled him, she might have insisted on taking the risk, she might have persisted, and Jim wasn't sure if he would have had the strength and the selflessness to turn her away then. This way was better. This way he could be sure she would not want anything further to do with him. He might have killed any affection Cecilia had had for him. But Jim would keep her safe. He would protect her.

When she had stood there in his front hallway, all that Jim had been able to think about, was the natural gas stove in his kitchen, just yards away. It would be easy enough for someone to tamper with it, to set off an explosion that would level the unit, and consume anyone unfortunate enough to be in the apartment. He had felt the sweat slick his palms, and dampen his torso, and it had been all that Jim could do to hold off from yelling at her to just _run! _to get away before it blew. He almost imagined he could smell the sulphurous burning of some timed heat source, before the first spark reached the gas line.

It hadn't happened of course. But it had brought home to Jim the desperate need for Cecilia to be nowhere near the apartment. To keep away from him. When she'd reached into her purse for his key, and her eyes had filled with tears, he had been tempted to tell her the truth. That it wasn't that he didn't care, but that he cared too much. If anything happened to her, especially because of him, Jim didn't think he could survive that.

Maybe they wouldn't have had forever, but the last few weeks that they could have had, had been stolen from him. Because some anonymous son-of-a-bitch had some inexplicable vendetta against him. Jim's arms ached with a sense of deprivation, knowing he would never be able to hold Cecilia again. Giving a strangled cry, his face contorted with loss and fury, Jim turned from the door. Grabbing the white bag from the table, he hurled it down the hall, while the agonized expletive echoed off the walls.


	33. Chapter 33

"Just in time," Catherine said, looking up as Brass entered the room. "Ronnie's just about to go over these letters with me. Grissom's on a four-nineteen in Henderson, with Nick. He said we should just go ahead."

Catherine was pulling a double, and though she knew she should be tired, she was too pumped up on adrenaline to feel that way just yet. Ever since she had learned that Jim was likely to be the next target of some maniac who had killed Denny Martens, Elliott Keeth and Joe Takei, Catherine had felt an overwhelming sense of urgency to delve into the case. She could almost imagine an hourglass, flipped over so that the first, fine grains of pale sand slipped through the narrow opening, setting a deadline for her. They had to solve this thing fast, to break it open before any harm came to Brass.

She had downed several cups of coffee throughout the night. Conversation between she and Cecilia had been scarce, both women too preoccupied, too worried to make a pretense of normalacy. They had nothing, no evidence at all for Catherine to process in the deaths of the detectives, so all that she could do was go back to the original Juneau case. She had spent the night reading old forensic reports, the bulk of them signed with Conrad Ecklie's familiar scrawl.

Catherine hadn't even gotten around to signing out the physical evidence yet. As the criminalist had worked, Cecilia had hung in the background. Sometimes pacing, her movements fraught with apprehension. Catherine could understand the novelist's worry and she felt compassion for her. Clearly, Cecilia cared a great deal about Jim. Finally, as morning had come, stating that she would stay and keep working on some things, Catherine had encouraged the other woman to leave. She had thought that Cecilia would go directly to Jim's, and return to the lab with him later, and Catherine was suprised to see him here now without her.

"Where's Cecilia?" Catherine queried, raising a brow. Brass just shook his head, a quick, tight motion, his expression morose. He looked rough. Tired. His eyes were bloodshot. And when he had shaved that morning, he had missed a small spot on the left side of his chin.

Brass watched as Ronnie centred the first note under the projector. The one that had been received at the station following Jada Miller's murder. The beefy scientist, with the curly, dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses gave the detective a welcoming smile. Not realizing just how personal this case was for Jim.

There had been handwriting analysis done nine years ago, as part of a profile of the killer. That was before Ronnie's time though. Truth was that Brass hadn't really paid too much attention to all of the details of it at the time, or been too interested in the process itself. All that had mattered to him then was the bottom line. What could they give him, so that he could do his job better? How would they profile the perp? The hows and whys of the arriving there were the domain of the CSIs.

Now, however, Brass found himself wanting to know everything. To follow the entire process. To see just how Ronnie would reach his conclusions. He had read the condensed findings from the lab's prior analyst, dry and technical, filed in the stacks of pages of the Juneau files. Brass wanted more than that though. He needed to understand every nuance. The detective would need every edge he could get, to catch this killer.

"I know that some people dispute the science of handwriting analysis," Ronnie began clearning his throat. "The fact is that most of us learn to write by imitating a certain style, usually the Palmer or Zaner-Blosser method. But what makes our handwriting distinct and personal, is that over time, idiosyncracies develop in the way that we form our letters.

"That comes from different factors such as education, artistic ability, preference and even our physiological development. Continuing to write, again and again, over years, defines a certain style that will only show a slight variation, if any, over that time. You can pretty much say that no two people write alike." Ronnie pushed the glasses up on the bridge of his nose, then pressed a button and the first note shone up on the big screen along the back wall of the room.

_Dear Officers of the LVPD,_

_To serve and protect. That's the motto. But it would appear that you failed, a young lady is dead, and the wicked one is still free. She was nothing, noboby, and snuffing out the candle of her existence did not even cause a ripple in the ebb and flow of human life. Still, your creed extends to all human creatures, no matter how insignificant. _

_If you had done your jobs and arrested the whore for solicitation she would have been off the streets, behind bars and safe. So really, who is to blame here? You erred and she died._

_Just so you know that I really am the one you seek, I'll share some things with you. The whore wasn't wearing a bra, and her panties, if you could call that brief scrap of cheap polyester such, were pink. Not the hot pink of the fuschia flower, or the pale pink of cotton candy, but the tacky pink of bubblegum. She was chewing bubblegum actually, like a cow with its cud. Disgusting. It fell out of her mouth when I hit her for the first time. I know that you found it, stuck in her hair. Who do you think put it there?_

_I await you._

Catherine reread the letter. It gave her the creeps, now that she knew that whoever had written it, might well be the same person who had written the letter to Denny Martens. A person who might be planning to kill Jim Brass. When she had looked at it the first time, in Jim's office, Catherine had considered it more a curiosity. A piece of history. Seeing it again now, the words solid and immutable, caused the tiny hairs at the back of her neck to stand on end. This time, she saw in the words a twisted and taunting fiend, behind the paper and ink. She waited to hear what Ronnie saw.

"What I'm looking at," he continued, "are class characteristics and individual characteristics. The first come from the writing sytem the person used. The second, from features that are not common to any group. The primary factors for analysis get divided into four categories."

Jim listened with interest. He wanted to know everything he could about this foe that he would be up against. His adversary had the advantage of knowing everything about him. Whatever Jim could learn, would help tip the scales of that imbalance.

"They are form, line quality, arrangement and content." Ronnie counted them off on his pudgy fingers. "Form refers to the elements that comprise the shape of the letters, their proportion, slant, angles, lines, retracing, connections and curves. Line quality involves the type of writing instrument used, the pressure that is exerted, and the flow and continuity of the script. Arrangement is about the spacing, alignment, formatting and punctuation that might be distinctive to the writer. Finally, content encompasses your spelling, phrasing, punctuation and grammar." He waited, glancing at the detective to see if he understood.

"Yeah, okay, I think I've got that," Brass told him. "So what can you tell me about our guy?" He stood with his arms crossed, his left thumb and forefinger rubbing his chin.

"The first and most glaring thing I see," the analyst began animatedly, "is the pronounced icicle writing." He tapped the paper with his gloved finger.

"Come again?" Brass frowned.

"It refers to the ductosity, the thickness and shading of the letter forms and penstrokes. I'm not talking about the thickness caused by the writing implement itself, or the actual pressure the writer used, but the quality of the penstrokes themselves. Thin stokes are called icicles, or refered to as _sharp_. Heavy and thick strokes denote pastosity. Most people fall somewhere in the middle, and ductose writing traits don't apply to them. But murderers are often either very sharp, or very pastose. Yours is an icicle writer."

"Like Ted Bundy," Catherine commented, recalling a seminar she had been to last year.

"Right," Ronnie agreed. "Charles Manson and Jack the Ripper were very pastose," he contributed.

"So what would this _icicle writer _be like," Brass wanted to know.

"If someone writes with sharpness and icicles, they are emotionally cold. Likely callous and unfeeling. You can see the writing itself looks mean and cold." Ronnie traced some of the words.

Brass wouldn't have thought of it in quite those terms himself, but he saw what the analyst was getting at and nodded perfunctorily.

"This is the kind of person who would be sarcastic and could have a sharp tongue."

"Hey, sounds like my ex-wife," Brass joked. Catherine chuckled.

"We're talking about someone who is very cold, and very insensitive. This here," Ronnie pointed to the word _Officers_ in the salutation, "this upright slant is indicative of that. These people are emotionally numb and ascerbic. Bundy was a cold and calculating killer. The pastose writers, Manson and the Ripper were highly passionate and excited about watching their victims suffer."

"Yeah, real nice guys either way," Brass sighed.

"I have to tell you, honestly, that icicle writers can be harder to catch," Ronnie told him sympathetically. "They are equipped to withstand the harshness and coldness of life. They're not intimidated by obstacles, but relish the challenge. Pastose killers, on the other hand, like to take the easy way. They are more prone to vices, and highly passionate and excitable, which means they tend to make more mistakes. Conversely, the icicle or sharp writer has the expectation that life will be hard, and he cuts through obstacles well. He's more controlled."

"Just my luck," Brass mumbled. He paused for a moment then continued. "I remember they had determined the letters were written by a man, and that the guy was right-handed." The other man nodded. "They said he might be confused about his sexuality?"

"This here," Ronnie replied, underlining with the pointer several words in the body of the letter, "this leftward tendency, and the weak nature of the lower zone...the lowercase letters...escpecially the loops that extend to the left, is a clue that he is unsure of his sexual identity."

"What else can you tell me?" Brass encouraged.

"Well, these tremulous formations, here, where he describes what the woman was wearing, that combined with the low form level, points to feelings of guilt for wrongdoing."

"So he's a cold bastard, but he knows what he was doing was wrong and feels badly about it?" the detective asked skeptically.

Ronnie removed the first letter, and put up the second, the one that had been received after Marilyn Hegel was murdered.

_Dear Officers of the LVPD,_

_Oh my. How embarassing for you. You've failed again. I waited for you to come knocking, to put an end to this, but you didn't. You let another one die. Again, I ask, who then is to blame? _

_She was another nobody. You know, she wasn't even a natural blonde. And there was a scar, low across her belly. I think the bitch had whelped at one point in the past. She was wearing white, cotton panties. How very pedestrian._

_How did she look when you found her? I'm afraid I lost my temper a bit. A temper is the bane of the wicked._

_I await you._

"The guy didn't have a very high opinion of women," Catherine commented distastefully. "The way he deems the first vic as _insignificant_. Calling the second a _bitch _and childbirth _whelping._" She shook her head.

"Residual anger at Mommy?" Brass guessed.

"We'll get the department shrink to take a look at these later," Catherine remarked, "but I'd bet you're on the money."

"Back to your earlier question, Captain, at the beginning here, he says that he was waiting to be arrested, for the police to put an end to the killing. He admits to losing his temper. Refers to himself again as _wicked. _All things that also indicate guilt," the analyst confirmed.

"But he keeps blaming the cops," Brass returned, his voice tinged with anger.

Ronnie shrugged his beefy shoulders beneath the white lab coat. "Because while he might know intellectually that it's wrong, he doesn't really _feel _that it is emotionally, not the way a normal person would. And he's having fun with the game." He looked at the projected words for a moment. "In regards to intellect, your guy is bright. Above average in intelligence. Likely well-educated, but not necessarily. You can see that in the spelling, vocabulary and grammatical composition of the three letters.

"And we can see it in the handwriting itself, as well. Based on the limited number of lead-in strokes, the numeric formations, and the speed of the writing. Another thing you'll notice," he went on, "is the gaps between the words. This tells us that your killer does not mix well with others."

"I think that's a bit of an understatement," Brass bit out sarcastically.

Ronnie blushed, and Catherine beamed him a smile, to let him know that the detective's words were more a frustration with the case, than a reaction to the analyst himself. There was a soft rustling as the larger man removed the second letter and replaced it with the third.

_Dear Officers of the LVPD,_

_A quartet now! I'm flattered. Are four heads really better than one? That remains to be seen. Speaking of remains, how do you like my most recent work? _

_This town is full of nobodies. I bet another has already taken her place. Still, you had a job to do. She was under your protection and once more you have _f a i l e d.

_I was waiting and waiting for you to come. To put an end to this. Before I had to put an end to her. How can you let the wicked go free?_

_She was wearing black panties and a green, silky nightgown. On the dresser in her bedroom there was a framed photograph of a young man, wearing a baseball shirt. She was looking at it, crying, when she died._

_I await you._

"By the third letter, there is more tension in the writing. Handwriting is controlled by our brains, not our fingers. The brain sends the messages, and depending on our mood, those messages can deviate somewhat from one example of expression to another. There is a lot of barely controlled anger in this piece of writing. One thing that I note immediately, is the extreme right slant, especially on this word here."

Ronnie circled the printed word _failed. _"Together with the increased pressure of the pen on the page, we can draw the conclusion that there is increased anger, a cold fury, and that the writer is seeking flight from the past."

Brass looked at the other man skeptically. "You can get all of that, just from the guy's handwriting?" While much of what the scientist was saying made sense, and while the detective knew that handwriting analysis often showed to be eerily accurate following the apprehension of a suspect, there was a lot that really seemed to him to be reaching. The whole idea of confused sexuality and now the concept of flight from the past, for instance. How could they really determine that from someone's cursive scrawl? Was that really there, or were they projecting, based on some of the similarities that had been shown to surface time and again in particularly violent and predatory killers?

"Handwriting analysis is a science, Captain Brass, with years of research and cross-reference to back it up. All of the major law enforcement agencies in the nation rely on handwriting analysis as part of criminal profiling. It is, in fact, very strongly peer-reviewed and certified by forensic groups such as the American Society of Questioned Document Examiners." Ronnie bristled at the perceived offense.

"Hey, I'm not knocking it," Brass soothed, giving the other man an easy grin. "It's just kinda out of my realm."

"This final letter, Ronnie," Catherine spoke up, deftly turning the conversation again, "the one that Detective Martens received. Is that written by the same person as the first three?" She tilted her head in deference, giving him her most charming smile.

Ronnie relaxed as he returned the smile, reaching for the last letter. The one that Brass had memorized. The one that the detective anticipated receiving himself at any time, with only the name changed. Brass tensed, waiting to learn if the note from Denny's safe was a clever copy of the orginal Holiday Murder letters, or if it had indeed been written by the same person.

_Dear Detective Martens,_

_Do you ever lay awake at night and think about the things you've done wrong? The mistakes you've made? Wishing you could go back and rectify them? Or do you lay in bed, sleeping the slumber of the perpetually oblivious?_

_To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. And the wicked go free. Sometimes, there is a pivotal moment...where one is on the brink...where the future hangs in the balance of one choice, one decision. Where your error demonizes the innocent and unleashes the devil. But sometimes, too stupid to recognize the mistake, the inferior pat themselves on the back and go on and others must pay the price of their failure._

_Do you sleep well, Detective? Or do you ever lay awake at night? Thinking. Remembering._

"Yes, it was," Ronnie was saying, and Brass exhaled deeply. "Let me bring up the original letters, side by side." He touched the keyboard of the computer to his left, and a split screen showed the three letters. I circled the areas that stand out as the most distinctive, and as you can see, they are identical in each one. The first letter, the _D_ in the salutation, is crisp, thin, with no observable lead-in stroke."

Brass and Catherine gathered closer to the computer next to him.

"We find that again in the personal pronoun _I_. In each and every representation. _Protect_ in the first letter, and _protection_ in the third. Do you see the way the _r_ abutts the _p_?" He paused while the detective and criminalist each nodded. "The words themselves, both exhibit those tremulous formations and low form levels that I mentioned before."

Ronnie moved away from the computer and to the large screen against the wall. With an erasable marker, he circled different points on the projected image of the letter that Denny Martens had received. "The paper used for the letters is different. In the first three, it's standard printer paper. In the fourth, it's parchment, more formal, but still common and unremarkable. It doesn't affect the quality of the writing or our ability to do a match though.

"There are points from the others that are _exactly_ the same in this letter. The _D_s in _dear_ and _detective. _The word _protect_, again written in a way that indicates guilt and an awareness of wrongdoing. There are other consistencies. Taking the originals as exemplars, I can state with confidence that whoever wrote the first three letters, also wrote the last one."

So there it was. Brass' proof that the letter Denny had received had been written by someone involved with the Holiday Murders. If not the actual killer, then a partner. Brass had been mulling over one other theory. That perhaps Juneau, while still their killer, might not have written the taunting letters at all. Might not even have been aware of their existence. Maybe, as crazy and impossible as it might sound, it had been someone on the _inside_, someone on the force, who had composed the letters, attributing them to the killer. Who else, aside from the real killer or an accomplice, would have access to the details of the case? But _why_? What possible motive would another cop have for doing that? Professional jealousy? Or just the game of some sick, warped mind? If he hadn't known better, being the last of the four detectives still alive, Brass would have been his own prime suspect in such a scenario.

One last thing remained to be determined, Brass knew. _When_ had the letter from Martens' safe been written? While every indication was that Denny had received it only recently, especially with confirmation from Annie that Takei had gotten an eerily similar letter just this past year, Brass needed more than assumptions.

"Can your analysis tell us if these were all composed at the same time, or how long ago this letter to Detective Martens was written?" Brass queried. He wasn't aware that he had balled his hands into fists at his side, or that the lines of his forehead had deepened, the muscles there knotting.

"If the ink used on all four was identical, then we could venture to conjecture that they had all been created within a specific, limited time frame. Visually, the ink on all four appears as the same colour, standard blue, and possibly from the same pen. I ran it through an infrared spectroscope, which gives each colour a different cipher. The first three all share the same source. The ink on the last letter came from a similar, but different source."

"The just means he could have used a different pen though, right?" Brass asked in frustration. "But still written them at the same time? Just misplaced the first pen, or run out of ink or something."

"That's true," Ronnie agreed amiably, not understanding how crucial all of this was to the detective.

Catherine could see how stressful this was for Jim, realizing how much might ride on the answers Ronnie was giving them this morning. She put a hand on Brass' arm, giving a comforting squeeze.

"When you first left me this letter, the one addressed to Detective Martens, and mentioned dating it, I sent it to the lab to see if there was some way they could date the ink," Ronnie was saying to Brass. "They couldn't, not with the kind of accuracy you were looking for. I also took the liberty of having them dust it for prints, and suction it for trace. There was nothing in the way of prints, except for those matched to Denny Martens, and the wife, which was to be expected. But I don't know yet if Trace found anything.

"Interestingly enough, though they couldn't date the ink, they _did_ manage to find out something about the paper. When viewed under special illumination, in this case ultraviolet light, modern optical brighteners were detected in the paper. These particular brighteners have only begun to be added to papers in the last three years. They identified the brand of paper, from that and its lignin value...it's in the notes...but it's just a commonly used, mass-produced type, found in any Wal-Mart, Target, or Staples across the country. I faxed you over a...Captain, are you all right?" Ronnie asked with concern.

_...only begun to be added to papers in the last three years... _This was the corroboration that Brass had been seeking. It didn't really matter if he could prove that the letter from Martens' safe had been written in the month or so before the detective's fatal hit-and-run. They had substantiated that it had been written _after _Todd Juneau's death. At least six years after the last of the Holiday Murders had occured. By _the same person_ that had written the original letters. Jim had his _proof_ that someone had resurrected the spectre of the old case. A case that he had thought...that all four of them had thought...to be solved, and which he had put behind him.

_Validation_. Jim had followed his hunch and hit one out of the ballpark. There should be satisfaction in that, but all that he felt was a tightness in his chest, and hot bile in the back of his throat.

Catherine could see how pale Brass had become, saw the perspiration that dotted his upper lip, and the dazed look in his dark eyes. "Jim, you okay?" she echoed Ronnie's worried query, clutching his arm. She understood what the findings meant.

"Yeah, yeah...sure...fine," Brass assured her. "Great work there, Ronnie," he complimented, extending a hand and giving the other man a lopsided grin. "I owe you one."

Brass then stared at the words on the screen. "He doesn't write _'I await you'_, this time," the detective observed somberly. "He's not playing the waiting game any more. He's not expecting Denny to come to him. He's on the offensive now."

_And I'm one step closer. You're not so clever you son-of-a-bitch. I'll get to you before you get to me. You can count on it, _Jim vowed silently to himself.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Jim, come in," Amy Martens invited warmly. "It's good to see you."

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Brass asked, stepping into the cozy foyer of the Martens home.

"Not at all. Can I get you something? Cup of tea?" She smiled at him, calm on the surface, though her heart pumped a wild beat. The detective looked weary, older somehow than he had appeared in his office the other day. His eyes were bloodshot, the flesh around them puffy. He was here because of Denny. Because of that letter. She just knew it. And something was terribly wrong.

"Thanks, no, I'm good," Brass replied.

At that moment a small brown form scampered around the corner from the kitchen, and skidded down the front hall, amidst an excited yapping, coming to a halt as it slid into Jim's shoe. Smiling, the detective bent down to pet the chocolate lab puppy. "Hey there, fella," he said softly. The pup whimpered with excitement, licking his hand, its small tongue pink and warm against his skin. Its tail thumped the wood floor.

"That's Hershey," Amy laughed, her apprehension temporarily suspended. "We just got him last week. We foster pups as service dogs, I don't know if you knew that. They come to live with us for a year, and we do basic obedience training and socializing. It was something that was very important to Denny. It's always so hard though, when we have to say good bye to them at the end of that time. When they go off to really begin their training. I think it's hardest on Christian though, he gets so attached to them.

"I brought it up to Denny one time, whether or not it was fair. But he believed that it was important for Chris to learn to put the needs of others before his own sometimes. To appreciate how much he had and how fortunate he was, compared to some others. He wanted to teach our son to follow the teachings of our Lord. To really live them." There was a wistfulness in her voice, a quiet pride as she spoke of her late husband. "We have an album, pictures of the dogs they send to us, after they've finished their training and are placed with their new owners. Some of them go on to be guide dogs for the visually impaired. A couple of them turned out not to be cut out for service work after all, and went on to be adopted as pets.

"The most recent dog we had, a Golden, her name was Mindy. Christian and I said good bye to her just a couple of weeks ago. She's gone to a place outside of Reno, where they train dogs to be companions for autistic children. I know she'll be perfect for that. I had such a hard time letting her go. Mindy will be the last dog that Denny got to work with." She paused, and Brass knew that if he looked up, he would see tears in her eyes. "He was the one with the special touch with animals," Amy admitted. "When they said they had another pup for us, I wasn't sure at first that Chris and I could do it on our own. I almost said no. Then I prayed about it, and the answer came. Not only could we still do this, but Denny would want us to. I think he's taught Chris enough at this point, that his son can carry on for him."

Brass felt a familiar sense of inferiority, that he had sometimes used to feel around Denny Martens, back when they had worked together. An understanding that while he himself was a decent enough person, one who did his best to impact with as little negativity on the lives of others as possible, that there were just some people who did so much _more._ Who found that little bit extra to give. People who made a _difference._

It wasn't that Denny Martens had been pompous or a braggart either, far from it. He rarely made mention of the generous or selfless things he did, never seeking recognition or praise for them. There had been, in fact, a humbleness in Denny, a quiet humility that made people search their own souls honestly. And every now and then back in those days, there had been a moment, like this, when Brass would admire the other man, while at the same time understanding uncomfortably that if they were to appear at the Pearly Gates on the same date and time, Denny would be wearing a halo of the purest gold, while his own would be battered and tarnished. They were just such genuinely good people, the Martens. Brass felt bitter at the unfairness that someone like Denny had been taken that way.

The detective scratched that special spot behind the pup's ears, and Hershey closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the ecstasy. "Is Chris here?" Brass asked casually.

"No, he's at school," Amy replied. He looked up at her with surpise. "Summer school. He's working on earning extra credits." Her green eyes regarded him frankly. "This isn't just a social call, is it Captain?" she asked softly. "You've learned something." Brass nodded. "Let's go sit down."

She led him into the livingroom, seating herself on an upholstered chair, while giving him the larger loveseat. It was a stylish room, decorated in creams and burgundies, but there was a warmth in the many personal touches, such as plants and florals and family photographs.

"You found something out about that letter," Amy stated. "It does mean something, doesn't it?"

Now that he was here, Jim found this much harder than he had rehearsed. "I don't think the hit-and-run was an accident." As much as she might have been expecting that, Amy Martens still looked stunned. "I think Denny was murdered."

"Who? Why?" she asked hoarsely. There were tears in her emerald eyes.

"I don't have the answers to that yet," Jim admitted. "But we've re-opened an investigation."

"Please," she implored, "I swear to you that nothing you say will leave this room. I won't speak to you of this again, until when and if you have something more that you want to tell me. But please, I have to know how you've reached that conclusion. Why you think Denny's death was deliberate."

He hadn't planned to give her any of the details. Not in an active case. But looking at Denny's widow now, hearing the plea in her soft voice, seeing the determination on her lovely features, Brass felt compelled to give her something more. Protocol or not. If it hadn't been for Amy Martens, they wouldn't even have a case. If she had simply thrown away that letter she had found, or if she had taken it to the other station, to the cops there, it would have been set aside and forgotten. It wouldn't have meant anything to any of them.

And then Brass would still have nothing but suspicions about the coincidence of Denny's and Elliott's deaths. He very likely would not have learned about Takei. And he would not have any idea that in all likelihood he was being targeted as the killer's next victim. He would not be able to take the steps that he could now, to safeguard his own life, while searching for the truth about what had really happened. Not just to the three detectives, but nine years ago as well. He would not have recognized a potential threat to Cecilia and been able to pre-empt the danger that their relationship might have put her in. For that alone, he owed Amy Martens so much. And he believed he could trust her not to compromise the case in any way.

"I don't know how much Denny would share with you about cases he was working," Brass began. He knew that some guys kept work and home life totally separated. Never discussing details of cases in progress, and only giving very rudimentary information about those solved or shelved. Other guys liked to pillow talk, they needed to share with their wives, and to talk through their stresses, frustrations and worries.

"It would depend," she replied. "Sometimes very little, sometimes just enough so that I could understand."

"Did he ever talk about the Holiday Murders?" He watched her brow furrow as she searched her memory. "It was nine years ago. Three women, sexually assaulted and murdered." He gave her a brief run down on the case.

"Yes, of course," she told him. "I remember now. Denny's partner Joe shot the killer. He was trying to escape arrest, and brandishing a toy gun."

Brass nodded. "After each of those murders, letters arrived at the precinct. Supposedly from the killer. Taunting police. They contained information that only those working the case, or the killer himself, could know. The letter that Denny had in his safe, it was written by the same guy."

Amy Martens frowned. "He kept it all this time? Why would Denny do that? Why not enter it into evidence? And why do you think a letter written nine years ago has something to do with Denny's death?" Clearly she was puzzled.

"The letter Denny got wasn't written nine years ago," Brass replied. He forged ahead. "It was written within the last three years. Six years after Joe Takei killed Todd Juneau."

She blanched. "Juneau had a partner? You think he murdered Denny...as an act of revenge?"

"I don't know that for sure. But I think that whoever wrote those original letters, and also the one to Denny, killed him. And not just Denny, but other detectives on the case, Elliot Keeth and Joe Takei as well." Brass waited for her to absorb that information.

"Oh my...I...I can't believe it. All _three_ are dead? Hit-and-run?" Amy looked as though she was going to be sick.

Brass shook his head. "They all died different ways. But all appeared to be accidents. Takei by accidental strangulation, Keeth in a fire originally thought to have been caused by careless smoking. I can't verify it for Keeth, but Takei got a letter just like the one Denny did, a month before his death. That letter is long gone. But I believe Denny received his letter shortly before the hit-and-run."

"Why didn't he say anything to me?" she wondered. "Why didn't he say anything to the police?"

"The Holiday Murders were a long time ago," Brass told her. "And it was a solved case. Denny would have forgotten about a lot of it. A lot of the details. As intensive as things are at the time, when it's over you have to move on, put it behind you. I don't think Denny connected the letter with the old case. It didn't make any mention of it. It was very vague. But I think that subconsciously, Denny knew there was something familiar about it...so he set it aside. It wasn't enough to alarm him, just enough to get him thinking. If there'd been more time...if he'd known there was something to worry about...he probably would have made the connection eventually."

Amy Martens bowed her head and stared down at her clasped hands. "This changes everything." She looked up. "Thank you, for figuring it out. And thank you for telling me."

"If you hadn't brought me the letter," Brass admitted, "we'd still be in the dark. As it is, we're just starting the investigation. Back at square one."

"When Denny was working that case, I remember that you came here a time or two, with Joe and Elliott. The four of you were working it together." Brass neither admitted nor denied it. "Now the three of them are gone." She looked at him intently. "I'll be praying for you, Jim."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Coopers was at the height of its midday rush, and waiters and waitresses bustled around the restaurant, delivering hot orders and cleaning away the detritus of completed meals. Sheriff Brian Mobley bit into the spicy chicken wing, enjoying the burning sensation that skated around his tastebuds. Across from him, Conrad Ecklie set down his burger and took another forkful of fries.

"I've got a couple of tickets for Cirque tomorrow night," Mobley mentioned, wiping his sticky fingers on a paper napkin. "Great seats. I thought I'd see if Cecilia Laval would like to join me. We were going to hook up for a cruise on the mayor's yacht not too long ago, but she was sick," he told the other man with regret. "Their latest extravaganza is the talk of the town, and tickets are hard to come by," the sheriff boasted. "Have you and the wife seen it yet?" He looked expectantly at the CSI supervisor.

Ecklie shook his head to indicate they had not. Then he chuckled, regarding the other man with a barely concealed smirk.

"Something funny?" Mobley asked coolly.

"I guess you haven't heard," Ecklie said pityingly. "The writer is Jim Brass' squeeze these days." He tried to force his lips together, to fight back the smile. As amusing as he found the situation, it wouldn't pay to take too obvious a glee in the sheriff's discomfiture. He couldn't keep his dark eyes from shining with mirth, however. "Pretty much joined at the hip, from what I understand."

Mobley coloured pink, right up to his scalp. Brass _knew_ he was interested in the writer. He had made that clear the night he'd stopped off at the precinct to look for Cecilia Laval's number. Prior to that, Mobley had established a rapport with the pretty novelist at the Kellerman's dinner party. Brass had been there, he must have noticed that. Brian had been busy of late, he hadn't been able to devote as much time to getting to know Cecilia as he might have liked. But he had staked out his territory and the lower-ranking Brass had ignored the boundaries.

The sheriff was furious. He hated to be embarassed and to look the fool. Especially in front of someone who worked for him. He gritted his teeth at the mocking laughter he saw in Ecklie's eyes. "I wouldn't be so smug if I was you, Conrad," Mobley hissed hotly. "Brass has been horning in on _your _territory too. He's re-opened Denny Martens' hit-and-run, as part of a larger and potentially high-profile, headline grabbing case. A career case.

"Seems three detectives who all used to be LVPD have died under questionable circumstances recently. And Brass has by-passed you altogether, even though you pulled the initial hit-and-run. He's working the case with Grissom." The sheriff was rewarded by the slack-jawed expression on the criminalist's face, and the narrowed glittering of his dark eyes. "So laugh all you want, but I'm not the only one cuckolded by our good detective." Mobley smiled icily and raised his glass of cola in a cheer.


	34. Chapter 34

Traffic on the I-15 on this Tuesday morning was primarily comprised of big rigs, with a healthy mixture of summer vacationers, in their RVs or pulling trailers. Brass was making good time, and figured that if he continued to push the speed limit, it would take him just under an hour to cover the eighty miles to Mesquite. Nothing significant, just a nickle or dime over the posted miles per hour, and he wasn't actually travelling that much faster than the flow around him.

The extraction used on the letter from Denny's safe had given them nothing. Too much time had elapsed between Denny's opening it, and its finding its way to the CSI lab. Brass had been disappointed, but in truth he hadn't placed too much hope on them uncovering anything case-breaking from the procedure. He had accepted the news, and forged on, and today he was following up a different angle.

The sky was a deep, solid blue, not a cloud in sight. He had the air conditioning on in the car, since it was a balmly ninety-two outside. Standard weather for southern Nevada at this time of year. Brass set the cruise control, glancing at the GPS screen. He would stay on the interstate, northeast all the way into Mesquite, and then take exit 120.

Sharon Gracin wouldn't be expecting his visit. He had telephoned earlier, just to ascertain that she was home, and not out of town, hanging up when she had answered. Brass had no idea how much time he had left before the killer would make a move, and he didn't want to waste a moment of it.

Almost ten years had passed since the Holiday Murders, and Todd Juneau's death. If Juneau had had a partner, Brass was about a decade too late to be looking for him, but he had to try. The file had indicated that Juneau's next of kin had been a sister, Sharon Gracin, living in Mesquite. He had had no other living relatives. Perhaps the sister would recall who Juneau's friends had been at the time. Might give him a couple of names to start tracking down. It was a place to start. Brass had traced her through her driver's license, which showed her still living in Mesquite, though at a different address than the one from nine years ago.

He hadn't wanted to conduct an interview over the phone or even to let her know he was coming. Brass wanted to see her in person. To get a sense of who she was. To see her expressions and reactions to his questions. As the next of kin, she might still have many of Juneau's personal items, the non-evidenciary ones that had been released following the case's conclusion. Brass didn't have a warrant, but perhaps he could convince her to voluntarily turn over to him anything of her late brother's. They hadn't been looking for a partner the first time around, and with fresh eyes he might see something they had missed.

All of this hinged on whether or not Gracin would even talk to him, Brass knew. Her brother had been shot and killed by police, however justified the shooting. He hadn't had his day in court; hadn't gotten his fair trial. Even though Internal Affairs had ruled Takei's shooting of Juneau as justifiable self-defense, and stated that Takei had been in reasonable fear for his own life and the lives of others, sometimes those close to the deceased could not accept such a finding. Unable to believe their loved one capable of wrongdoing, or having a history that made them suspicious of cops, sometimes grief-stricken or angry friends or family would rally to rant about injustice or police brutality.

That hadn't happened following Juneau's death though. As far as Brass could recall, there hadn't even been anyone else present at the inquest, except for those in law enforcement, and the television hounds and newspaper reporters who had covered the story. No one had protested the shooting, not family or the media. He didn't even think that the sister had come to Vegas at all in those weeks after the shooting. She certainly hadn't made any waves, if she had.

A car cut in front of Brass then, a small, silver Chevy, its driver having gotten impatient at following behind the livestock truck in the centre lane. Deciding to pass, it just moved over suddenly and then slowed abruptly, without the driver indicating with his signal, or even glancing over his shoulder to check his blind spot. Jim touched the brake at once, lightly to slow the sedan, disengaging the cruise. Automatically, he glanced into the rear-view mirror to see how closely the car following was to his bumper, ready to steer off onto the shoulder if his reactionary slowing put him at risk of being rear-ended. There was a Jeep further back in his lane, but there was plenty of space between them. The Chevy accelerated ahead of him and the detective just shook his head.

_Jerk._ Some people just didn't have a clue. No harm done though. Thankfully the sedan was well-maintained and the brakes were good. Watching the white line fly past, Jim had a sudden disquieting thought. How easy it would be for someone to access his undergound parking at the apartment, and to tamper with his vehicle. To fray a brake line. Traffic accidents occured routinely. Despite the comfortable temperature inside the sedan, Brass broke out in a sweat.

That hadn't happened of course. Not this time, at least. Brass felt the anger and the frustration once more. _How was he ever going to safeguard against all of the potential dangers? _The more that he thought about it, the more he wondered whether or not, even if they had _known_ they were being targeted, the other detectives could have remained safe. How could anyone possibly anticipate all of the ways that a contrived accident could befall him?

It didn't seem likely that the cop-killer would leave the planning of Jim's demise to such chance though. Losing his brakes could be bad, very bad, and even fatal at a busy intersection, or at highway speeds. But there were too many variables that couldn't be controlled. That didn't seem to fit the killer's profile, not from what Ronnie had told him yesterday. Icicle killers were cold and calculating. The guy wasn't aiming for an injury. He wouldn't want to have to make a second attempt. That would arouse suspicion, and in that case the whole element of a seemingly accidental death, which seemed important to the killer, would be lost.

Brass was so tired of second-guessing everything. He had lain in bed last night, arms crossed behind his head, trying to go over details of the case in his mind. But all that he had been able to think about was what might happen the moment he closed his eyes. He kept _internalizing_ and if he didn't put a stop to that, he was never going to solve this thing. He couldn't keep jumping at shadows, and glaring suspiciously at strangers. Jim would have to trust that his senses and intuition were good...they had kept him alive for this long...and he would have to be confident that when the killer made a move, he would recognize it for what it was.

Otherwise...he was going to drive himself crazy. He wouldn't be able to do his job, and he might as well recluse himself from the case. Just lock himself in his apartment and sit there and wait for the Grim Reaper to knock. _No way!_ Brass was not going down without one heck of a fight. He was going to be pro-active. With Gil and Catherine's help he was going to solve this thing.

The rest of the journey to Mesquite was uneventful. He concentrated on the natural beauty of the area. The Virgin River Valley was picturesque. Cecilia would love it, Brass thought with an empty pang. He hadn't seen or spoken to her since early yesterday morning when he had driven her out of his home, and out of his life. He missed her. As he had finally drifted off to sleep last night, Jim had breathed in the now familiar, sweet scent of her, still lingering on his pillows and sheets. The experience had been bittersweet.

Finally he was exiting on 120, to the Falcon Ridge Parkway. The GPS system guided him to make a right on West Pioneer Blvd., and Sharon Gracin's apartment would be just moments ahead on the left. Mesquite was a pretty place. There were big city attractions with a small town feel. The population here was less than twenty thousand, compared to the half a million people who called Las Vegas home. There were all of the same amenities, twenty-four hour gaming, golf courses and spas. But the cost of housing was much cheaper here.

If it wasn't for the commute, Jim would have bought a place in Mesquite. Not that he minded the driving, he enjoyed it in fact, and was comfortable doing it. Also, it was the I-15 all the way, not the frustration of stop-and-go. But there was no way that he could afford to be an hour away from work. Sometimes he could get called in, and they needed him there pronto.

Gracin's building was a small, square four-storey, white stucco, with big balconies for every unit. It was well-kept, and the halls held the not unpleasant odour of having been recently painted with an oil-based off-white.

"Sharon Gracin?"

She stood in the doorway, regarding him calmly from lovely, violet eyes in an ample, pretty visage framed with very curly black hair. "Yes," she replied curiously. Jim didn't see much of a family resemblance, except for the hair. Juneau had had thick, curly, black hair as well.

He flashed his badge. "I'm Detective Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police Department. I'm sorry to just drop by like this, but I was hoping that I might be able to talk to you for a few minutes." He smiled, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible.

She was clearly perplexed. Surprised, but with none of the guilt that even the most innocent of citizens often reflected when the cops showed unexpectedly at their door. "Las Vegas police? What is this about?"

This was it. She would either allow him in, or slam the door in his face. "It's about your late brother, Mrs. Gracin, Todd Juneau."

There was a barely audible gasp, and then she just stood looking at him for several moments, with a stunned expression. Finally, she stepped back. "Come in."

He followed her into a decent-sized living area, a bit untidy with clutter, but clean. There were plants everywhere, greenery, dripping from hanging baskets along the big window that caught the afternoon sun, and standing on every available bit of surface on bookcases, shelves and tables. "Someone has a green thumb," he commented in a friendly tone, trying to put her at ease.

"Yes," she said simply. Then, "Just a minute, before you start. Maddy!" she called out, raising her voice.

A young girl of about ten or eleven came down the hall from the opposite end of the apartment. Sharon Gracin reached for her purse, on the floor next to the sofa. She extracted a couple of bills, while the child stood expectantly, looking questioningly at the detective.

"Maddy, why don't you go call on Emily and see if she'd like to go to the Dairy Queen for an icecream," the woman suggested lightly. "You can treat her." The girl's eyes lit up, and she happily accepted the money before bounding out of the apartment with the enthusiasm and energy of youth.

Once the child had gone, she resumed the conversation with Brass. "She doesn't need to hear any of this. So what brings you here, after all of this time, to talk about Todd?" Her tone was cool. Sharon Gracin did not sit nor suggest that he do so either.

"I have new evidence to suggest that he might have had a partner who was also culpable in the deaths of those three women," Brass said carefully. He had to tread lightly here.

"A partner?" she repeated dully. "What makes you think that?"

Brass shrugged. "This is an active investigation, and I'm sorry that I'm not at liberty to give details."

Her violet gaze was piercing. "Active investigation? Todd is dead. Those murders were almost ten years ago. The police found their killer. Todd tried to escape, he threatened an officer, and he was shot dead. What more can there possibly be?" She studied him.

"I need to talk to anyone he might have been friends with at that time," Brass continued, pretending that the question was rhetorical. "I was hoping you might be able to help me locate them. Anything would be a help. Addresses. Names."

"There was never even a mention of a possible partner at the time," Sharon Gracin said quietly. "Something has happened, hasn't it? Has another woman been killed? And is there something about the murder that you think is just like what happened to those other three women?" He found that he couldn't look away from the intensity of her stare. "You know, I never did believe that my brother murdered those women."

Brass waited for the censure and anger that was sure to come. Condemnation that they had gotten the wrong man.

Instead, the woman turned and walked slowly over to the window that overlooked the rear parking lot. She reached up to touch the emerald and yellow tendrils of a snake plant, before reaching to check the moisture level of the soil in a potted jade on the windowsill. Her plump back was to him, her curly, dark hair hanging on her shoulders.

When Sharon Gracin spoke again, her voice was strained. "He was a damaged man, my brother. There was something bad inside of him. There always had been, ever since he was a boy. Something selfish and twisted." Brass took a step or two closer. "He was always the favourite. Our mom died when I was four, and Todd was eight. Our dad raised us. We grew up in Arizona. Window Rock. He spoiled Todd. My brother could do no wrong, had no consequences for his behaviours.

"I don't know if there was even anything my dad could have done. I think some people are just _born _like that. But dad didn't even try, and so that just made things worse. It made Todd worse." She fussed with the jade, using her fingers to dust the thick leaves of the succulent.

"When I was eleven years old, I woke up one night, and Todd was in my bed." Her voice had gotten so low that Jim had to move even closer to catch all of the words. "He...he violated me. He didn't actually rape me, there was no...he didn't..."

"I understand what you mean," Brass said softly, reaching to briefly touch the small of her back in a comforting gesture. He felt heartsick at her disclosure. He knew the statistics, of how many girls were sexually abused, usually by someone they knew and often by someone they should have been able to trust.

"But he...touched me...and he...touched himself. Whispered all kinds of terrible, dirty things. Afterwards, I told my dad, but he didn't believe me. He called me a liar." There was a catch in her voice. "I...stripped the sheet off my bed, and took it to him. Proof. Todd said...horrible things. That I had encouraged him. Lead him on. I swear, I hadn't. I was only eleven, I would even have known _how. _And besides he was my _brother. _He called me a slut. My dad said that if I ever told anyone they would come and take me away and put me in a foster home. That I could never come home again, or ever see my friends."

Jim's throat got tight. _Christ!_ What was wrong with some parents? He knew that he was never going to get a Father of the Year award himself, probably didn't even deserve to have a kid, but there were some people that just made a total mockery of the title. Brass ached for the fear and sorrow of the child that Sharon Gracin had been.

"There were other...occasions...like that. And the rest of the time, he would always watch me, with this strange look on his face. I always felt like a fly caught in a web. Todd didn't date much, but I remember one girlfriend he had. I can't even recall her name any more, but I can see her face. Not too bright, but real sweet. A cute blonde. He liked blondes." Brass thought immediately of Marilyn Hegel. "There were rumours that he...that he assaulted her. Not...intercourse. But like...like what he did to me. He broke into her basement bedroom at home. There was talk that she and her parents were going to go to the police, but they never did. I think my dad must have gotten involved. Protected Todd again, somehow."

"I'm so sorry, for what you had to go through," Brass told her quietly.

"I left home when I was sixteen. Ran off with Maddy's dad. We're still together, believe it or not." Sharon Gracin turned away from the window then. "Todd was...sick. But I just never believed that he killed those women. He was never violent." She was standing just inches from Brass now, and held his gaze. "But when I heard that cop had shot him, I was glad." She raised her head defiantly. "Maddy was eighteen months old then. All I could think about, was that I would never have to worry about Todd abusing her. Or anyone else. Not ever again."

So that was why she had never spoken out following Juneau's death. And the father, Raymond Juneau, Todd's protector, had died the year before the Holiday Murders. Brass knew that the crimes of sexual predators often escalated over time. Juneau had been exposing himself to porn that was steadily more violent and more degrading to the women in the films. The detective had worked enough cases to understand that over time the viewer could become desensitized, and what had previously been satisfying would no longer be, so that increasingly graphic and unsettling images were needed to fire the libido and ensure a release. And then one day, fantasies weren't enough anymore either. If it had been years since Sharon had had any contact with her brother, he could have changed significantly during that time.

"I suppose it's possible he could have had a partner. Hooked up with someone else," she admitted though she sounded doubtful.

Someone with the same proclivities for deviance, Brass thought.

"He called me, the morning of the day that he was shot," Sharon said then. Brass was taken aback. "From a pay phone in Vegas. I could hear the traffic and noise of the Strip in the background. He was desperate. Frightened. He said that the police had the wrong guy, that he hadn't hurt those women." She sighed. "I couldn't believe that he had the gall to call me. I hadn't seen or spoken to him in five years. I guess he just didn't have anyone else. He knew Kevin's last name...that's my husband, Kevin Gracin, and we don't have an unlisted number or anything, so I suppose he looked us up.

"He was crying, swearing up and down that they were wrong about him. He wanted to borrow money," she told Brass with a disbelieving shake of her head. "Said that he had to go to Mexico for a while, and lay low til they found the _real_ killer."

"Did you give him any money?" Brass asked. "See him at all?"

"No, of course not!" she snorted. "Kevin took the phone and told Todd he had better turn himself in, that it was time to face the music." She blushed a bit now. "Kevin knew what Todd had done to me when I was younger. He's still angry about it, even today. He...he told Todd that if he believed in God he'd better get on his knees and pray for mercy. Because prison is a bad place, and the guys in there would love some fresh meat, and Todd was finally going to get his. He wanted to scare him. Payback, I guess."

Brass had a sense of deja vu. Sharon Gracin's husband had said something to his brother-in-law that was very similar to the words Jim had spoken to Michael Strickland in the interrogation room that day. He could understand what had motivated the other man. "You didn't call the police, after you heard from Todd?" Brass asked. "Even though you knew he was a suspect in a murder case?"

"Kevin just hung up on him. I said that we should call the police. He insisted that there was no point. We didn't know anything. Todd had called from a pay phone, and would be long gone before the police could even begin to look for him. Kevin said that we'd get dragged into it. We'd be on the news. Everyone would know us, and know that my brother was a serial killer. Maddy's uncle. There could be a backlash in the community. He wasn't going to risk that. Not when there was nothing we could do to help." She held her head high, unapologetic for her husband's reasoning.

Brass nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, Kevin Gracin had been right.

"For Todd to call here, he had no where else to turn. No one else to turn to," Sharon stated her conviction. "If he'd killed those women, if he'd had a partner, he wouldn't have tried to get help from me." She tilted her head slightly. "There was one more thing. He said that he loved her. The cashier. The one that he worked with. I've forgotten her name. He said that he hadn't hurt her." She sighed. "I believed him. Not about the loving her, I don't think he was even capable of that. Not really. But I believed that he hadn't killed her. I'd heard enough of his lies over the years, to know when he was telling the truth."

"And yet you never came forward, never told police about the phone call, or said anything about believing in his innocence?" Brass asked, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"He was dead. He resisted arrest. He was stupid enough to pull a toy gun on an armed policeman. He got what he deserved. I'm not going to pretend that I mourned him. And anyways, the killings stopped. Didn't they?" Sharon asked, raising a dark brow. "So either way, it didn't really seem to matter whether he was guilty or not."

Brass clenched his jaw. Would it have made any difference? If Sharon Gracin had come forward at the time, if she had told Jim then what she was telling him now, would he have listened to her? Would he have cared? Would it have changed his perception of what had happened? Or would he just have taken her statement, and then discounted it. They had gotten their guy. There had been no more murders. Nothing she had told him now, would have changed his mind then, Brass admitted to himself.

"Which brings us back to why you're here. Do _you_ have a reason to think that maybe Todd _didn't_ kill those women, Detective Brass?" Sharon asked with interest. Jim was silent. "Don't worry," she said with a humourless laugh, "I'm not going to sue the department for wrongful death or anything. When Todd was killed, the Las Vegas police did me a favour. I used to have nightmares, sometimes. About what he did to me. Anxiety attacks, worrying about Maddy. I haven't had either since that day.

"You probably think I'm a horrible person," she continued. Brass shook his head. "Anyhow, I'm sorry but I can't help you. I have no idea who Todd's friends were, if he even had any at all."

"As next of kin, Todd's personal effects were sent to you," Jim stated. "I was wondering if I could take a look at them."

"I threw them out the day they arrived, without even looking at them. I didn't want anything of his," Sharon said, her upper lip curling in revulsion.

Jim's gut twisted. If there had been any evidence of a partner among Juneau's things, it was long gone. "Well, thank you for your time," the detective said then. "I appreciate your talking with me."

"Whatever or whoever you're looking for," she told him, "I hope you find it. I know Todd wasn't unique, that there are some terrible people out there. But some of them, are even worse than he was."

Her words echoed in Jim's head as he began the drive back to Las Vegas. He wasn't sure whether or not coming here had yielded anything helpful or not. He had learned something new, that Todd Juneau had called his sister the day that he had died. And that Sharon Gracin believed her brother innocent of the Holiday Murders. Of course, it was natural for people to have a difficult time accepting that a loved one might be guilty of a heinous offense. It was normal for people to be blindly loyal, even in the face of overwhelming evidence, when someone that they cared for was in trouble.

Except...Sharon Gracin hadn't loved her brother. He had abused her growing up. She had every reason to despise him. No reason to protect his reputation. She thought that he was an awful person, and part of her was glad that Todd Juneau was dead. And _still, _despite all of that, and despite what he had done to _her, _she did not really believe that he had killed those three women nine years ago. That, Brass knew, was different from the normal denial he often saw among friends and family. Her belief in Todd Juneau's innocence was...compelling.

Perhaps Catherine or Gil would have something more conclusive for him, after reviewing the physical evidence from the old case. Something to link Juneau to the victims beyond the shadow of a doubt. Because now, Brass realized uneasily, as the sedan breezed along the interstate, he was beginning to seriously doubt for the first time whether or not they had gone after the wrong man nine years ago.


	35. Chapter 35

_I'm sorry it's been so long between postings! December is such a busy month. I hope that everyone had a happy holiday and a safe and happy New Year. Hopefully now I can get back to more regular postings. Thank you for your continued interest, and as always I appreciate all reviews. Cathy._

Chapter 35

"Thanks for agreeing to come in and talk with us voluntarily, Mr. Foss," Brass told the sandy-haired man congenially. "Have a seat."

"Sure, no problem," the other man replied. "And Barry is fine."

_Could this be the guy? _Brass wondered, as he took a chair on the opposite side of the table. Barry Foss didn't look like a cold-blooded killer. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance. Foss was tall; on the thin side. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, pale blue eyes, and a slight overbite. He was the kind of guy who had no distinguishing features, one who passed unnoticed in a crowd. Of course, Brass reasoned, not all serial killers had the crazed, maniacal look of a Manson. You couldn't tell just by looking at someone whether or not he was a sociopath. It sure would make Brass' job easier if you could, though.

Brass had returned from Mesquite at about noon, and gone back to his office where he had holed up with the Holiday Murder files. He kept thinking about his earlier conversation with Sharon Gracin. About her belief that Todd Juneau was not guilty of the murders. Brass had decided to entertain that premise for the moment, and he went back to the beginning, back to when they had first begun to suspect Juneau.

There had been the statements by Marilyn Hegel's husband that Juneau had been bothering her. Confirmed by other cashiers who verified that Hegel had confided to them that the grocery clerk made her uncomfortable. There was the statement made by the deli clerk, who had seen what appeared to be an argument between Juneau and Hegel in the parking lot of the supermarket the day Hegel disappeared. Hegel telling him to leave her alone. There was the physical evidence that Ecklie had uncovered, Juneau's fingerprint on the roof of Hegel's car.

Obtaining and excercising the search warrant, they had gone through Juneau's home. There they had confiscated large amounts of pornography, both videos and written materials. And then Elliott Keeth had discovered the album, filled with the photographs of Marilyn Hegel. Photos that showed Juneau had been stalking her for some time.

Discovering the police at his address, removing materials, Juneau had fled. He had not returned to his home, nor had he gone back to work for two days, missing scheduled shifts. This action had seemed to evidence guilt, and an arrest warrant had been issued.

_Why else would Juneau run? _Brass had asked himself. If he was truly innocent, why would he evade police? Brass tried to get inside Juneau's head, based on what the sister had told him. Juneau was spoiled. Selfish. He had never had to face the consequences of his own wrongful actions before. Daddy had always stepped in to save him. But Daddy wasn't around anymore, he had died the previous year. There was no one to intercede this time.

And now a woman that Juneau had been stalking was dead. The police were at his house, and they would have found not only his stash of porn, some of it illegal, but the pictures he had taken of Hegel. Juneau could probably guess what they would think.

After being on the run for two days, Juneau had called his sister in Mesquite. A sister that he had not seen or spoken to in several years. Juneau had been scared. Desperate. Asking for money. His brother-in-law not only turns him down, but adds to his fears with talk of prison, and what Todd will find there.

Later that day, Juneau calls a co-worker, Barry Foss, and makes the same plea for money. The same protestations of innocence. Why would Juneau have called the sister _first_? The sister that he had sexually abused as a child. The sister that he had had no contact with. Why call her _before_ calling a friend? They hadn't known, at the time, that the call to Foss was the _second_ incidence of contact Juneau had made.

So Juneau is alone. Scared out of his wits. Knowing the police are looking for him, for three murders that he didn't commit. He can't access his bank account, and withdraw cash from an ATM because he can guess that his bank card has been flagged. He also can't use it anywhere for debit purchases. Same thing goes for his VISA. All he has are the clothes on his back, and his car. The police have his vehicle description and plate number. He can't even drive to Mexico, assuming he'd even try to make it across the border, because by now he's probably low on gas, and he can't risk stopping some place to fill up.

What if...considering how he had been trailing her so persistently...Juneau had _seen_ what had happened to Hegel? What if he had witnessed her abduction? What if he _knows _the real killer? But, not sure if the police would believe him, and figuring he would still be in trouble for the porn and the photos of Hegel, Juneau decides that skipping the country is still his best bet. He's never had to face the ramifications of his actions before. He might still go to jail for the stalking, and his brother-in-law's words of what that will be like, haunt him.

So, Juneau contacts the killer. He contacts _Foss. _Tells him that he knows Foss killed Hegel, and therefore the other women too. But promises to keep quiet, in exchange for enough money to get out of the country. Maybe by this point he's picked up the toy gun at a dollar store somewhere. Perhaps, getting desperate for money, he had contemplated trying to rob a convenience store, if his plan to get money from Foss didn't pan out.

But Foss double crosses him. Calls the cops. When they are there to arrest him, Juneau panics. Runs across the parking lot, away from police. Furthering cementing his guilt in the minds of his pursuers. Realizing he is trapped and has no where to go, either in stupidity, or figuring that suicide-by-cop was better than having to go to jail, or maybe just having seen one too many action flicks and forgetting this was real life, Juneau pulls the toy gun on Takei. And Takei shoots and kills him.

Maybe Juneau doesn't _know_ anything about Foss. Maybe he only suspects his co-worker was involved in the murders. Maybe Foss isn't involved at all. But...if Foss and Juneau were such great friends...why didn't Juneau go to the other man _first_? Before he contacted the sister. At the time of Foss's call, nine years ago, notifying them that Juneau had called him and was meeting him at the store, Brass and the other detectives had made the assumption that Foss and Juneau were friends and that that was why Todd had asked for money and thought Foss would comply. They had thought that Foss had turned Juneau in because he was a concerned citizen doing the right thing. But perhaps those assumptions had been erroneous. Maybe there was another reason Juneau had contacted Barry Foss with an expectation that Foss might assist him.

And, going back to the premise that Juneau was guilty, if Juneau _was_ the killer...or if he was involved in some way, and had a partner...who was a more logical suspect than Barry Foss? The man Todd had turned to to get money to help him evade police. _Something _didn't add up. Knowing now that Juneau had gone to Foss _after_ he'd gone to the sister, knowing that Foss hadn't been Juneau's first choice to seek help from, put an entirely different spin on what had transpired all those years ago.

Brass was tired, and he rubbed his left hand over that side of his face, before running it back and through his thinning hair. His eyes ached, blearly from the hours he had spent going back over old notes, both his own and those of the other detectives. Initial statements from co-workers at the supermarket, taken by Denny Martens...before the search warrant had been executed and in the initial stages of the investigation when they had first turned their interest to Todd Juneau...had been that Juneau was a loner. That he didn't socialize with any of the others outside of work. No one knew much about his personal life except that he was unmarried, and that aside from his interest in the married Marilyn Hegel, which she had repeatedly rebuffed, Juneau had kept to himself.

Martens had interviewed Barry Foss at the time, then a grocery clerk like Juneau, and Foss had not indicated that he and Juneau were friends, or that they were close in any way. Foss had not been able to confirm or discount Juneau's interest in Hegel. He had had nothing to add to the investigation. Denny had either failed to recall, or had discounted the importance of that discrepancy later on.

_So why had Todd Juneau called Barry Foss that fateful day and why had he felt he could reasonably expect that Foss would help him? Why Foss?_

A couple of phone calls this evening had determined that Barry Foss no longer worked at the same supermarket location where he had worked with Juneau and Hegel at the time of the murders. He was still with the same chain, promoted now to assistant store manager at a downtown location. Brass had stopped by the store a few hours ago to talk with Foss, and had found the other man supervising the unloading of a delivery truck at the rear of the store. The detective had recognized Foss, remembering him from the night Juneau had been shot.

Foss had recognized him as well, Brass knew, and he had seen the uneasiness come over the man's thin features. Had watched the wary shifting of Foss's blue-eyed gaze, refusing to meet his own. Brass had told him that he was following up something from the murders of nine years ago and wanted to talk to Foss. The assistant manager's eyes had widened with surprise, then he had turned his back to the detective, ostensibly to direct the unloading of some dairy products to one of the big coolers. The other man's voice had seemed strained as he reminded a young clerk to strap in a dolly of milk crates so they wouldn't topple.

Foss had finally turned back to Brass, and with a fixed smile had remarked that he would be happy to talk to the detective, but that he was rather busy right then, and that he was in charge of the store closing that evening. Foss had said that he would be done by eleven thirty, and would be happy to stop by the station then, if Brass would like, since it was on his way home. Brass had accepted the offer and thanked Foss for his co-operation.

Foss appeared nervous, sitting across from Brass now. But the detective knew that many people were intimidated just by being in the precinct building, and that for many, even innocent people with nothing to hide, it could be unsettling to be questioned by police. Foss's unease might not indicate anything meaningful at all. Or...Foss might be their killer.

"We were wondering, Barry, if you would give us a sample of your handwriting?" Brass asked off-handedly, as though the request was perfectly natural.

Foss frowned. "My handwriting? Why? I thought you wanted to talk about Todd Juneau, or Marilyn Hegel. Those terrible murders." The blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Though I don't understand why you'd bring it up again now, after all these years."

"Yeah," Brass said with a smile. "I do. I'll get to that. Of course, we can't compell you to give us a sample, your prescence here is strictly voluntary, which the LVPD appreciates." He didn't explain his reasoning for wanting the writing sample. He just sat there, with his elbows on the table, looking expectantly at Foss.

Clearly, Foss was confused. Brass watched him intently, looking for signs of guilt. Wondering if Foss would get up and walk out. Or perhaps demand a lawyer.

"Sure, okay," Foss said at last. "If it'll help you somehow."

Brass was mildly surprised that Foss would give up a sample so easily. That could either mean that Foss _hadn't _penned any of the letters. Or it could mean that he thought he was clever enough to try to change his handwriting, to alter it enough so that it would not resemble the writing on the letters they had in evidence. Or perhaps Foss thought he could provide a sample, which on the surface would make him look innocent, leave the station, and then disappear before they had completed their analysis and had enough to issue an arrest warrant.

"Catherine," Brass called towards the open doorway of the interrogation room.

Catherine Willows entered at the detective's beckoning. She smiled at the suspect charmingly, to try to put him at ease. As she handed Foss a sheet of paper and a pen, and explained that she would read several sentences to him, and that he should just write them down exactly as she dictated, her mind swirled with questions. Could this be the guy who had been involved in the Holiday Murders along with Juneau? Could this innocuous looking man have planned and executed the murders of three police detectives? Did they have him? Was this all going to end tonight, and things could go back to normal, and she could stop worrying that Jim Brass's life was in imminent danger?

She watched as Foss reached for the pen with his right hand. The creator of the letters was right handed. But so was the majority of the population. The true test would be the composition of the paragraph Ronnie had given them. The analyst waited in another room nearby, ready to go over the sample as soon as Catherine could bring it to him. Clearing her throat, she began to read what appeared to be a series of disjointed sentences.

On the other side of the glass window, Cecilia watched the proceedings in the room. She stood ramrod straight, her hands clenched at her sides, her fingernails digging into her palms. When Catherine had gotten the call from Jim that he had a suspect coming in to the station tonight, Cecilia had prayed that this would be all over. That Jim would be safe.

She hadn't seen or spoken to him since she had fled from his apartment yesterday morning. She had learned from Catherine that Jim had come into the lab later that morning to talk with Ronnie about his analysis of the letters. They had learned that whoever had written the three letters to police at the time of the original murders, had indeed been the same person who had written the letter to Detective Martens. And Catherine had explained that they had definitively proven that the letter to Martens had been written recently. _After_ the death of Todd Juneau.

Catherine had expressed her surprise that Cecilia had not accompanied Jim back to the lab. Cecilia had been unable to hide her distress, and Catherine, thankfully, hadn't pressed for an explanation. Conversation last night between the women had been brief and strained. Catherine was working tirelessly, going through old evidence, double checking everything that Conrad Ecklie had originally processed. Last night she had reconfirmed that the print taken from Hegel's car had matched Juneau's left index finger. She had cross-referenced other prints taken from the car's trunk, against Hegel and her husband. Cecilia had watched her work, observing the intensity with which the CSI approached each task. As though each detail could mean the difference between life and death. And secretly both women believed that it might.

That first day, after the scene with Jim at his apartment, Cecilia had gone back to her place. Too upset to sleep, she had lain down in bed anyways, rolling and tossing restlessly. She had realized that initially she had been expecting Jim to call. Or to come over. To tell her that it was all a mistake, that he hadn't meant to just shut her out, and that what they had was important to him. That he was just stressed out right now. But that they would get through this. Together.

But he hadn't called and he hadn't come over to her apartment. Even after he had had time to reflect on what had transpired, Jim had obviously meant what he had said. He had never viewed their relationship as anything long term. He had always anticipated it ending at some point. Jim Brass was not emotionally invested in Cecilia at all, despite what she had hoped. And now, when he was in the midst of this crisis, he did not need her to comfort him and support him. Her prescence would merely be a burden. An unwanted distraction that might get him killed.

He looked so tired, Cecilia thought. She ached to be able to comfort Jim. She wanted this to be over for him. She watched him, as he watched Barry Foss write down the words that Catherine spoke slowly and clearly. She saw the vein that throbbed in Jim's temple, and could only imagine how tension-filled this moment was for him. Unconsciously, Cecilia raised one hand to the glass, and over it traced the contours of his dear face.

"Thank you, Mr. Foss," Catherine was saying briskly. She took the sheet of paper, casting a glance at the detective, her sapphire eyes brimming with the hopes that both of them held. Jim nodded, the barest inclination of his head, and then the CSI was moving off, on her way to where Ronnie waited.

Catherine came around the corner, pausing in the corridor. There was something so indefinably sad about the way Cecilia stood leaning against the glass, her dark eyes riveted on the detective. Cecilia was in love with Jim Brass, Catherine knew intuitively. Deeply and completely in love with the gruff, battle-weary cynic who had come, over the years, to be Catherine's friend. What that was going to mean for either of the two, Catherine did not know.

Sensing her prescene, Cecilia turned.

"I'm taking this to Ronnie," Catherine said needlessly. Cecilia stared at the paper in the other woman's hands. "It shouldn't take too long."

Cecilia nodded. There was nothing to say. No words to encompass the enormity of what Ronnie might determine.

Catherine sensed that Cecilia was not going to accompany her, but would remain here, watching Brass. Waiting with him, in a sense. The blonde reached to touch the other woman's shoulder, her own throat too tight now to express the comfort she wanted to extend. Instead she gave a gentle squeeze, then continued down the hall.

Brass sat back in his chair, and regarded Foss. "The day Todd Juneau was killed, you reported that he called you, wanted to borrow money, and was meeting you at the grocery store." Brass smiled. "That was the break we needed, and thanks to you we were able to apprehend a murderer and stop the killings." He watched Foss bow his head and shrug his narrow shoulders self-deprecatingly, though the other man gave a small smile at the gratitude.

"There's something I don't get though, Barry," Brass continued, his voice lightly tinged with curiosity. "Why you? Why did Juneau call you?"

"He, uh, he wanted to borrow some money," Foss said, seemingly confused by the question.

"Yeah, sure," Brass agreed nodding. He leaned forward across the table, and his dark eyes narrowed speculatively. "But why _you_, Barry? Why would Juneau call _you_?" He titled his head.

Foss looked down and away. "Because we worked together, I guess," he mumbled, shifting in his seat.

"I guess Juneau wasn't a very smart guy, huh?" Brass inquired genially. "He knows he's got an arrest warrant out for him. We're closing the net. And he calls some guy that he works with, expecting that guy is going to not only give him money...aiding and abetting, which is a serious crime in itself...but he must not have been expecting that guy to call the cops.

"Why you, Barry? Why would Todd think _you_ would be that guy?" Brass's dark eyes were piercing. "You told Detective Martens you hardly knew Juneau. You weren't friends or anything. Right? So why would Todd call _you_?"

"I don't know," Foss replied evasively.

"I think you _do_ know," Brass went on. "I think there was a reason Juneau called you. A reason he thought you would help him. Why don't you make this easier on both of us, Barry, and just tell me."

"Look, I did the right thing," Foss said, "I called you guys. Because of me you got him, you said so yourself." Foss risked a glance back up at the detective.

"Yeah, we already established that you were a big help," Brass said dismissively. "But you still haven't answered my question, Barry, and see I just don't like unanswered questions. They bother me. They interrupt my sleep at night. I don't like it when something interferes with my sleep." Brass watched the other man closely, to see if there was any recognition, any reaction to the talk of troubled sleep.

Foss remained silent.

"Okay, I've got a couple of theories I'll share then," Brass told him with exaggerated brightness. "Juneau had a partner. Someone was helping him murder those women. And when he got stuck between a rock and a hard place, he figured his partner would bail him out."

Foss paled as the words sank in. "No..." he denied hoarsely.

"Or, maybe Todd wasn't the killer after all. Maybe he was just a patsy. He'd been stalking Marilyn Hegel. He was obsessed with her. Watching her all the time. Fantasizing about her. Maybe...maybe one day, as he's following her around...he sees someone _else_ kill her. But the police think _he's_ the bad guy. And he knows he's done some things that are going to get him in trouble, even if he didn't rape and murder any of those women.

"So he approaches the _real_ killer. In exchange for his silence...all he wants is some money to help him disappear..." Brass let the thought trail off.

Foss stared at the detective, transfixed, his mouth slightly agape.

"So which is it, Barry?" Brass asked coolly. "Did Juneau call his _partner _for help? Or did he call the _real killer_?" Suddenly, Brass smacked the table. "I'm asking you a question, Barry!" The other man startled in his chair. "Why did Todd Juneau think you would help him!"

"It wasn't like that..." Foss protested weakly, shaking his head in denial.

"And you knew you had to get rid of Juneau, before he talked. Before he implicated you. So you let him think it was safe to come to the store. That you would get him the money. And then you set him up. You called the cops. If Todd squealed, you'd deny it and who would believe him? Why would you turn him in if you were guilty and he could finger you? It would look as though Juneau was just trying to implicate an innocent man out of retribution for turning him in. You couldn't have known the shooting would go down though, huh Barry? That was just a stroke of sheer luck.

"Or maybe you did anticipate it. Juneau had talked to his sister and brother-in-law earlier in the day. He was wound up. Scared about going to prison. Did he tell you that? Did you play into those fears? Tell him that he'd better be careful not to get caught, that anything was better than going to prison?" Brass smiled coldly. "I gotta tell you, Barry, you were one lucky son-of-a-gun the way things played out. Juneau takes the fall alone for the killings. You walk away scott free.

"But you can't kill again, can you? At least not any more women. Not the same way. Because then we'd know that Juneau hadn't done it. But once you get that _need_, you gotta answer to it, huh? So you hatch a way to start killing again..."

"NO!" Foss cried out. "I don't know what you're talking about, but you've got it all wrong! I didn't kill anybody! Oh God, no! Todd did, you guys had the evidence and everything, I watched it on the news, and read about it in the papers!" Foss's pale blue eyes were wild. "Todd was into some weird shit, some sick stuff. He had this thing for Marilyn..."

_"Did he?" _Brass queried quietly. "You know more than you've been telling, Barry. You lied to Detective Martens nine years ago. You're in this deep. Maybe Juneau didn't have to face up for his part in things to a jury of his peers. But you'll pay for your part."

Foss put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. "You've got it wrong," he moaned, his voice muffled.

"So tell me how it really went down then," Brass demanded. "And cut the bull. What do you know about Todd that you didn't tell us before? And why did he believe you would give him money and not turn him into the police?"

Foss looked up, stricken. "Okay, first you've got to promise that I don't get charged with anything. I want some kind of immunity. And I don't want any of this getting back to my wife."

Brass was taken aback. The request not to involve the spouse seemed strange. When someone was involved in murder, the last thing they would worry about was whether or not their wife found out. "I'm not promising anything, but if you're straight with me, it'll go better for you."

Foss seemed to understand he would have to be satisfiied with that. "After Todd had been working there for a while, I discovered that he was into some weird things. We were in the break room one day, and this magazine fell out of his locker. Real hard core stuff. Nothing I'd ever seen on the shelves, if you know what I mean, not your regular T and A stuff," Foss told Brass. "He didn't say anything, picked it up, shoved it back in.

"But I, um, asked him about it. Where he got it. Sort of...let him know I might be, uh, interested in some stuff, if he had a way to get it, and that I would be discreet about what I'd seen."

Brass watched Foss's cheeks colour.

"We were never friends, nothing like that, we didn't hang out together or anything. Sometimes, Todd would talk about some of the stuff he was into. Rape. Bondage. Or he'd talk about Marilyn. When we were alone. It was just talk, I thought, you know, fantasy stuff."

"So Juneau was getting porn for you?" Brass asked dispassionately.

"Yeah. Magazines. Some videos. I mean, okay some of it probably wasn't exactly legal, but it wasn't anything real bad. Not kids, or snuff stuff, nothing like that," Foss stated emphatically.

"So what was it then?" the detective asked.

"Look, I love my wife," Foss said. "And I'm not queer or anything, I've never been with a guy. It's just fantasy stuff. But Karen is real, uh, straight-laced, and she wouldn't understand. She'd kick me out in a heartbeat. And we've got a kid, a son, he's eleven years old now. She'd divorce me for sure, make it out like I was some pervert or something, try to keep my kid from me, I know it. Her parents have money, and they'd get her some high-powered lawyer and I wouldn't stand a chance.

"Look, I don't cruise or anything. I never cheated on her. I just...like to watch." He kept his eyes downcast.

"So Juneau blackmailed you because he provided you with gay porn?" Brass asked quietly.

"Yeah, he said he was going to go to Karen and tell her about me. I didn't know if she'd believe him or not, but I couldn't take the chance. So I told him to meet me at the store, and I'd give him the money. But then, I realized that I couldn't let him get away with killing Marilyn and those other women. He swore to me he didn't do it, but I didn't believe him. I knew I had to call the cops, even if it ended up that I had to tell Karen everything. But I didn't think it would come to that. I figured once you guys arrested him, he'd never have the chance to get near Karen, to tell her anything anyways.

"I didn't know he was going to run, or that he'd pull a gun. Well, you know, it looked like a gun," Foss amended. "I thought it was real, and I could see why the cop thought it was. When that Asian guy shot him, and Todd was dead, I thought it was all over."

_We all did, _Brass thought.

"I don't understand why you're asking me about this now though," Foss said perplexed. "Just _now_ it started to bug you wondering why Todd came to me for the money?" Brass just stared through Foss as though he hadn't heard him though. Foss waited for a few moments, then said hesitantly, "So, since I came in and cleared this up, voluntarily and all...we, uh, don't have to involve my wife or anything, right?"

"Jim."

Brass turned towards Catherine's quiet voice. She stood just inside the doorway of the room, her lovely features impassive, but her pretty blue eyes were shadowed. Jim gave her a weak smile, knowing already what news she had for him. Slowly, Catherine shook her head. Ronnie had tested the sample Foss had given them, against the other letters, and there had been no match. Even if Foss had tried to disguise his handwriting, the analyst would have been able to make an infallible determination.

"Thank you for coming in, Mr. Foss," Brass looked back at the other man, though his dark gaze seemed vacant and unfocused. "The LVPD appreciates the co-operation. Anything you've said in this room, remains between us," he added, his voice a monotone.

Barry Foss relaxed visibly. "Great! Well, thanks, Detective. Good night." He rose and edged towards the door, and finally deciding that this wasn't a trick and that they weren't going to detain him, he practically bolted around Catherine and to freedom.

Catherine came into the room. She perched on the table beside Brass. The detective stared down at his hands, clasping them before him on the shiny, metal surface. "He's not our guy," Catherine said, the disappointment heavy in her voice.

"No," Brass replied simply.

For the first time, the detective turned his face towards the mirrored rear wall of room. She was there, on the other side. He could sense her prescence. He stared at the wall, wanting to envision her, but seeing only his own image. A tired, middle-aged cop. His craggy features etched with fatigue and discouragement. Running out of leads, and running out of time.


	36. Chapter 36

_Thank you for continuing to read and renew. And again, how nice to see new 'faces', to join those who have been such faithful and encouraging readers. All of the kind words and support add to the fun of writing this story, which I am so pleased to be able to share. Cathy_

Chapter 36

After the interview with Barry Foss, and the elimination of him as the writer of the Holiday Murder letters and the note to Denny Martens, Catherine and Cecilia had returned to the lab, where Grissom waited, continuing to peruse the old files. One look at Catherine's tight-lipped frown and Gil had known that Foss had been another dead end. Briefly, Catherine had explained that Ronnie had determined Foss's handwriting was not in any way a match to their mysterious letter writer's. And she informed Grissom that Brass had believed Foss' version of what had happened, and the explanation for his involvement with Juneau.

Cecilia had not had a chance to speak with Jim at the station. He had left the interrogation room before she could navigate the hall around to the other side. She had looked for him in his office, but found it dark, the door locked. Even if she couldn't offer him the kind of comfort she longed to give, and even if their relationship had changed now, Cecilia had still hoped to be able to commiserate with the detective. She didn't believe that Jim bore her any animosity or that there was any reason they couldn't still talk civilly, even if their romance had broken down. She had hoped to share their mutual disappointment and to offer some kind of hope or encouragement. But he was gone. Perhaps he had left for home and some much needed sleep.

Back at the lab, Cecilia had offered to make a pot of coffee, while Catherine had joined Grissom in attacking the boxes of files connected with the Juneau case, with a renewed determination. Catherine had said little on the return, though her frustration had been apparent in the speed with which she drove, the way she cut in and out of traffic, and the heavy hand she had finally laid on the horn when the car in front of her was not quick enough to turn on the advance green. The case was weighing heavily on everyone, Cecilia knew, because it was so personal.

Cecilia returned with styrofoam cups of coffee, wordlessly setting one on the desk next to Grissom's elbow, before handing another to Catherine who offered the pretense of a smile in gratitude. Cecilia felt helpless, no longer content to just observe the CSIs doing their jobs, but wanting desperately to do something to help. But because her status there was unofficial, she couldn't go near anything that was evidence. And though she would sometimes pick up one of the reports, they were often written in a way that there was too much that she didn't understand. There were abbreviations, numerical codes and lingo that were still not clear to the writer, despite how much she had picked up in the time she had been in Vegas. And no one had the time now to explain things to her. So Cecilia would do what she could to assist, running errands, helping to search for files, bringing the hot brew whose caffeine helped to fuel the investigators.

"Catherine," Grissom questioned lightly as he read one of the old forensics reports, "what was Todd Juneau's blood type?" He raised his silvered head, and the blue eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were more intense than the ease of his tone might have suggested.

"I don't recall, off hand," Catherine admitted, looking at the supervisor speculatively. "Let me check the autopsy report." She set down the file that she had been reviewing, and reached across the table for one of the square, corrugated cardboard boxes that lined it. Lifting the lid, she pulled out a handful of reports. "What have you got?" she asked curiously, head bent, strawberry blonde hair falling over her right shoulder, while her fingers danced over the corners of the sheaf of papers.

"This is one of the reports from the Marchison murder." Beth Marchison was the forty-two year old, divorced cocktail waitress who had been found dead at her home by a friend and co-worker, the day after Thanksgiving. She had been the last of the serial killer's three victims. Grissom shuffled aside photographs of the woman's battered face, and naked body. "Ecklie collected scrapings from under the victim's fingernails. Epithelials that were possibly transfered during a struggle."

Catherine knew that nine years previously, they had not had the technology to extract DNA from such a minute sample. But they would have been able to type the blood. Her heart quickened as her eyes skimmed the files, finally resting on the one she sought. Catherine glanced at the box on the autopsy report that indicated the decedent's blood type. "Juneau was A positive," she announced.

There was an expectant pause in the room, a silence that stretched already taut nerves almost beyond their capacity. "That's what I thought. Which is interesting," Grissom said quietly. "Because whoever's epithelials ended up underneath Beth Marchison's fingernails, was an O positive blood type."

Cecilia's dark eyes darted back and forth between the two criminalists.

Catherine stared at him. Her mouth felt dry. "Okay, I'm not doubting the coroner. If there was a mistake made...if...then my money would be on Ecklie. Maybe it was just a typo. Maybe it was lab error." _Maybe. _Except in all of her years, she had never actually witnessed such a crucial mistake. And even though she had little respect for Conrad Ecklie personally, Catherine believed that he was competent at his job. She couldn't imagine that he could ever be that sloppy. _Still..._a high pressure case. An overworked CSI. No one was infallible.

"We need to get that sample out of evidence storage, and test it again," Grissom told her. "Because if there is a discrepancy..."

"...then we have our physical proof that Juneau might not have killed the three women, or at least not Marchison," Catherine finished.

"And we have our first concrete lead to whoever might have killed Martens, Keeth and Takei," Grissom stated.

_And to whoever might be coming after Jim Brass next, _Cecilia thought with a flare of hope.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

When Jim returned home, and found the crisp, cream-coloured envelope addressed to _Detective James Brass_, he was surprised to find that its arrival was almost anti-climactic. He extracted it from his box, using a tissue to hold it to preserve as much trace as there might still be. As he stood in the lobby, he swivelled his head to look out at the darkness of night beyond. Wondering if perhaps whoever was stalking him now, might be out there. Watching. Enjoying the game. Strangely, Brass felt no fear, only a simmering anger.

Upstairs in the apartment, despite knowing that he should wait to open the letter at the lab...that it was evidence now more than personal correspondence...Jim took a pewter letter opener from a catch all basket on the fridge and slit the envelope. There was no return address. A Las Vegas postmark cancelled the stamp, which was just common variety first class letter postage. Even if it hadn't been for the fact that his personal mail was never addressed to _Detective _Brass, Jim would have recognized the looping swirls of the now familiar handwriting. _Icicle writing._

Donning a pair of latex gloves, Jim extracted the letter. He read it with curious detachment.

_Dear Detective Brass,_

_How are you sleeping these nights, Detective? Does your conscience plague you? Are you bothered in the least by your own ineptitude? Or do you fall into bed and forget the world around you, so narcissistically wrapped up in your own feelings of moral and professional superiority?_

_To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. You demonize the innocent, and allow the wicked to go free. While others pay the price for your failure. In the end, Detective, we all have to pay a price for our mistakes. Our sins. Have you recognized yours yet?_

_Do you sleep well, Detective? Or are your dreams ever haunted with the repercussions of crossroads where you chose the wrong path?_

There was nothing on the surface that Jim could glean from the letter, no new evidence, nothing to point him in the direction of the killer. It was as vague as the letter Denny Martens had received, though slightly more ominous and threatening. Only now, forearmed unlike the unfortunate Denny, Elliott and Joe before him, Jim knew what it meant. It was the killer's calling card. It meant that he was coming. For Jim this time.

Taking a glass out of the cupboard, and carrying the letter into his office, Jim set both on his desk, before unlocking the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and extracting the bottle of whiskey. Knowing there had been no way for anyone to tamper with it, he poured a generous measure of the liquor. Taking a seat in the high-backed, leather office chair, and holding the glass of whiskey in his right hand, the detective picked up the letter in his still gloved left, and read it again.

He supposed he should probably take it to the lab right now. But, Jim reasoned sullenly, he was just too damned tired. He didn't believe there was anything they could get from the letter that couldn't wait a few hours until he'd had a chance to shower, and at least lay down and close his eyes for a while. And maybe the killer waited for him in the lightless void, expecting him to do just that, expecting him to rush the note back to the forensics lab. Ready in the underground parking to orchestrate a death made to look like a late night mugging gone bad. And one of Jim's neighbour's would find him in the morning, crumpled on the ground next to the sedan, his throat slit, or his guts pooled around a crimson tear in his otherwise clean, white shirt, his wallet missing.

Unless he was here already, crouching in one of Jim's closets, hatching up a nefarious scheme to deprive the detective of his earthly existence, between now and the first pale fingers of dawn...the killer would just have to wait.

Jim tossed the letter on his desk. _"Who are you, you son-of-a-bitch?" _he whispered.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Well at least it's been in cold storage," Catherine remarked gratefully to Cecilia, while she carried the evidence vial into the DNA lab. "Sometimes with old evidence, especially in a solved case, there isn't as much attention to detail as there could be." Catherine called to Greg Sanders who sat across the room, his head bent over a microscope. "Hey handsome!"

Greg failed to look up, and Cecilia noticed that he was wearing a minature set of earphones, his spiked head bopping in time to a tune that only he could hear. Catherine rolled her eyes and shook her head and Cecilia was surprised to find herself actually chuckling. It was amazing really, the resiliency of the human spirit. In spite of the severity of the task that had brought them here, in spite of the fact that her heart was inexorably broken over the break up with Jim, Cecilia realized that a part of her could still function on another level, able to react with some normalacy to the world.

When Catherine tapped the shoulder of his blue lab coat, Greg whirled, his surprise spreading to a wide grin when he saw who his visitors were. Pulling the earphones down around his neck, where a strange cacophony continued to stream out, Greg nodded his welcome. "Hello lovely ladies," he said cheerily.

Cecilia had come to really like the young scientist. Greg Sanders was always upbeat, seemed always to be in a good mood; genial and personable. He had his own distinct style, for which he was engagingly unapologetic. Behind the streaked hair and bold clothes, was a sharp mind and an inquisitive, caring soul, Cecilia had found.

"I need you to do something for me. Please," Catherine asked ingratiatingly, holding out the clear baggie that contained the vial.

"You know, no one ever comes to see me unless they want something," Greg pouted, switching off the MP3 player. "I feel so _used._"

"Aw, Greggo, it's not like that," Catherine protested with a wry grin.

"I'd love to help you," Greg said seriously, "but it'll be a while. There's a backlog from dayshift, and they've got this case that goes to prelim in two days." He shrugged helplessly. "Maybe tomorrow."

Catherine felt her frustration rise. "That's not good enough," she bit out in exasperation. "Really, I know what you're working on is important. Maybe there's something I can do to help out, something I can do for you that's just grunt work, so you can just do this one little thing..."

"I dunno," Greg said with reservation.

"This is really, _really _important," Catherine insisted.

Greg observed the sheen in her blue eyes. _They almost look like tears, _he mused to himself. "Is this for that hush-hush case you and Grissom are working?" he wanted to know, spreading his hands and wiggling his fingers in conjunction with the words _hush-hush._ Catherine frowned her irritation. "Nick and Warrick said you guys are working something that seems to be some big secret," he explained with a shrug.

"It's not a secret," Catherine sighed. "Just...delicate." Greg looked at her expectantly. "It's the ghost of an old case, and it's connected to three recent murders," she allowed. "Cops."

Greg was taken aback. "Wow. I never heard anything about that."

"It's out of the papers for now, and we're trying to keep it low key," Catherine explained. "We're racing the clock though. Before...before another cop's life might be in danger."

Cecilia's earlier good humour dissipated and she paled. She knew how much rested on whatever Greg might determine from the scrapings that had come from Beth Marchison's nails almost a decade ago. Perhaps a clue left behind by a malevolent killer.

"I just need you to type this," Catherine cajoled. "See if there's enough in these epithelials for DNA extraction. Anything you get, I'll run myself. I promise." Her voice was tight with controlled emotion.

Greg sighed. "Okay," he relented. "Sit down and I'll tell you how to finish up this sample under the scope, while I see what you've got here."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

The phone rang several times before a groggy voice answered. "Hello?"

"Yeah, Nancy, it's Jim," he said uneasily.

There was a long pause followed by a hissed expletive. "Christ, Jim, it's five a.m. What the hell do you want?" she asked perturbed, her voice heavy with sleep. Then, more clearly, an edge in her tone. "Is it Ellie? Is something wrong?"

"No, it's not Ellie. I mean, there's nothing wrong. Not that I know of. I was wondering...do you have a number for her? An address or anything?" He tried to keep his voice level. As always, just hearing his ex-wife's voice was enough to catapult him back to those years of raw pain and misery. He hadn't really considered what time it was, when he'd called directory assistance and gotten Nancy's number. It was after two in Vegas, sunrise soon on the east coast. He'd woken her, of course, he should have waited to make the call. But time wasn't something he had on his side right now, and since she was already up, he might as well forge ahead.

"Are you kidding me?" she asked querulously. "Are you drunk?"

"No," Jim replied with a sigh. He'd had a couple of glasses of the whiskey, but he was far from drunk. He wasn't even really feeling the effects of the alcohol, it seemed to burn off as fast as he consumed it, his metabolism on overdrive. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it was so late, and I forgot about the time difference."

"Imagine that, you being so wrapped up in yourself and what you want, that you don't give a damn about anyone else or spare a second thought to its effect on them." The bitter sarcasm travelled the miles.

"Look, I can call back later and we can swap happy stories then," Jim interjected stonily, "or we can get this over with now and you can go back to bed." Nancy had always been one of those people who drifted off to sleep the moment her head touched the pillow anyhow, he reasoned. The interruption might be unwelcomed, but he knew the minute she hung up the phone, she'd be back in blissful dreamland.

There was another pause, and for a moment Jim thought she had hung up on him. "I don't know how to get in touch with Ellie," she admitted at last. "Last time I spoke to her was over a month ago. She was heading west with some new guy she'd hooked up with." Jim heard the maternal worry in her voice. Whatever else Nancy was or wasn't, she had always been a good mother to Ellie, despite how difficult the girl had made that at times.

"Okay. I'm sorry I woke you," Jim offered a tired apology.

"Is there some reason you need to reach her?" Nancy asked, more alert now, and most of the initial reactionary anger faded. "It's not your mom or anything?"

Nancy knew Ellie's paternal grandmother's health was delicate and had been for years. Her concern sounded genuine, and Jim felt himself soften. Nancy wasn't always a Class A Bitch. They just hadn't been good for one another. And there was a lot of hurt on both sides. "Naw, nothing like that," he said softly.

"If I hear from her, I'll tell her you called for her," Nancy conceded.

"Thanks," Jim said. "And really, sorry I called so early." They hung up without the formality of farewells.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"This is definitely type O positive," Greg said, completing the test. "Is that good news or bad news?"

"Good. I think," Catherine replied.

"I can get DNA, but it's going to take some time," the young man cautioned. "There's nothing more you can do here. If Grissom is willing to authorize some overtime, I can probably have it for you midday tomorrow. Today. However you want to look at it."

Catherine buzzed Gil in his office, explained what she needed, then handed the phone to Greg.

"Yes, Sir, you got it," Greg spoke. He hung up and passed the phone back to Catherine. "Are you going home after shift, or are you going to be here still?" he queried.

"Probably here," Catherine responded. "Lindsey is away at summer camp for two weeks, so I've got some flexibility. Just page me when you have something. And Greg, I really do appreciate this, more than you can know." Her voice was deep with a quiet sincerity.

"Aw, shucks," he said, hanging his head and giving her a wink. "Just don't forget, Cecilia still owes me dinner and dancing from the last favour I did for you," he quipped. "Or was it drinks and dancing?"

"I know a nice place where there's an intimate dance floor and a piano player who has a fondness for Neil Diamond," Cecilia smiled at him.

Greg shuddered, appalled. "Neil Diamond! That's the thanks I get!" He shook his head and looked at Cecilia reproachfully. "You ladies are always taking advantage of me." He gave a long suffering sigh. "Out of my lab!"

"Page me," Catherine repeated seriously. "The minute you have anything. Thanks, Greg."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

At first, he had begun to compose the letter on his laptop, but then Jim decided that that was too impersonal. So he'd gone the old-fashioned route. Laid out a sheet of paper and picked up a pen. It was even more difficult than he had anticipated. He wasn't much of a writer, words weren't his forte, and he wasn't sure how to communicate everything that he wanted to say.

He finally decided to just put down the words the way he would speak them, if she was here with him now. The daughter of his heart. His Ellie. Angry. Rebellious. Beautiful. She had so much to offer, yet so little confidence in herself. And Jim knew, at heart, that a lot of that was his fault. He couldn't change the past. He couldn't erase the mistakes. But maybe he could explain. And at the very least, he could tell her how much he loved her. His face contorted with pain and self-recrimination, as Jim tried to remember the last time he had said those words to her. It had been far too long.

When he was done, he reread it critically. Eventually, it had grown to three pages long. It wouldn't earn him any marks for composition, but Jim thought that he had pretty much covered what he wanted to say. It had drained Jim, having to relieve the past. Having to own up to his own failures, and to ask forgiveness. He hadn't said anything about Mike O'Toole. It was irrelevant, he had decided, to his relationship with his daughter. This was about he and Ellie.

He found an envelope and slipped the folded sheets inside. Licking the edges, he sealed it, before writing her name on the outside. _Ellie Rebecca Brass. _He opened the top drawer of the desk, and set it over the scattering of paper clips, pencils, and other paraphernalia. If anything was to happen to him...someone would find the letter. They would see that Ellie got it. Not that he was throwing in the towel, it was just insurance. Something he should have done long ago. And once this was over...if Jim triumphed in the end..._when_ he did...then he would find his daughter and give her the letter in person. And finally, they could begin to resolve all of those issues from their past.

There was another letter to write. This one just as difficult, only for different reasons. What words could he use to properly impart to her the depth and magnitude of his feelings? How could he explain why he had to turn her away, to protect her? How could a spattering of cursive letters possibly let her know how Jim felt when he had held her in his arms, and for the first time in his life he had felt at peace? What words could define the beauty of the soul that shone in her dark velvet eyes? There was an ache in him now, an emptiness that only Cecilia could ever fill. How could he put the words together so that they didn't sound phoney or cliched? He was doubly conscious of the fact that words were her strength.

At last, once more, Jim just wrote from his heart, setting the words down as he would speak them. Somewhere in there, surely, she would see how very much he loved her. And she would know the value of all that she had brought to his life. When he finished it, Jim held it for a moment in his hands. If something happened to him...when they found the letter and gave it to Cecilia...what would it really bring her? Having made peace with their separation, to learn after his death that more than anything Jim had _wanted_ to be with her, had loved her, would that bring her any closure? Or would it only cause renewed sorrow and perhaps a heightened sense of loss, if indeed she still had feelings for him? Wouldn't it be better for her, to just continue to believe that he had been nothing more than a selfish, self-centred jerk, and to go on with her life? _While what had happened in Vegas, stayed in Vegas._

Finally, he reached across the deak, slid the letter through the slot, and flicked a button. The shredder roared to life, clawing and tearing the carefully chosen words into tiny, unreadable strips. Until finally, Jim's heart was reduced to a pile of recyclable refuse. His love for Cecilia a secret that might well go with him to his grave.


	37. Chapter 37

_Again, all reviews are much appreciated. I really enjoy that others are reading and able to take some pleasure for this story as well. I guess it's either feast of famine, lol, because here's the next chapter already. I can see this story so clearly in my mind, that any chance I have to write, I take it! Thanks again all for visiting my take on our CSI world with me. Cathy._

Chapter 37

Ronnie studied the sheet of parchment, resting now beneath a clear overlay on which he circled points of interest. The keen eyes behind the dark-framed glasses went back and forth between the copies of the originals, and this new letter that they had brought to him. It unnerved him, though he didn't let on, to see Captain Brass' name in the salutation. He hadn't realized just how close to home this one was.

Finally, Ronnie had turned away from his work, and looked at the three who awaited his pronouncement. Brass, Catherine, and the writer who had been working with the CSI lately, Cecilia Laval. Of the three, interestingly enough, it was Brass who seemed the calmest, the most self-possessed. The women wore their heightened concern in the tight set of their faces, and the soft wrinkling of their brows above eyes wide with apprehension. He imagined what a writing sample taken from them now might show, the emotion it would evidence.

"Yes, it's written by the same person," Ronnie confirmed.

Cecilia's knees felt weak. Of course, they had expected that. Who else could the letter be from?

When Jim had strolled into the lab that morning, freshly attired, newly shaven, a crooked smile intersecting his features as he had handed Catherine an evidence bag that contained a cream-coloured, business-sized envelope, Cecilia had felt time slow in a surreal parody. Her senses had seemed heightened, and she had noticed everything. The clean, fresh scent of the shampoo and soap Jim had recently used. The slight ruddiness in his cheeks and at his jawline, where the whirling blades of the electric razor had clipped facial hair that she knew was starting to grey. She noted that he wore the gold tie clip with the amber-coloured stone, the one that she had come to learn had been a gift from his mother, and was encrusted with a topaz chip, representing his November birthday. His dark brown, leather shoes were polished and buffed.

The hand that held the bag showed nails that were clean, clipped short. No ragged cuticles or hangnails. She had learned that while Jim wasn't one to fuss with his appearance, that it was important to him to care for his hands. She remembered him telling her, one morning as they had rested lazily in his bed, in a tangle of limbs and sheets, when she had held up one of his hands between hers and remarked on them, that he had confided that when he was a young teen, he'd had a nail-biting habit. His father had told him, without cruelty or reproach, that the habit told the world Jim had a weakness, aside from it being unsightly. That it was the little details people often noticed that helped them form an opinion of you. When you extended your hand to a man to shake, or to a woman to hold, what did you want them to see of you? The young Jim had taken that to heart, had beaten the habit, and had taken care with his hands ever since.

It was funny, Cecilia thought, the little things that the mind could dwell on, when the world was falling apart around you.

Voices had sounded far away, muffled through the rush of blood that swirled and pounded through the arteries in her head. She had watched Catherine take the bag, frowning as she had observed that he had already opened the letter, remarking that she wished he hadn't done that. Jim had shrugged, saying lightly that he'd known she'd probably want to rap his knuckles for it. But admitting that curiosity had gotten the better of him.

Cecilia's abdomen had churned, seemingly with ice water. She had had to stave off the nauseau that threatened her. If it hadn't been real before, it was now. There was no denying it...Jim _was_ a target. Whatever the letter said, however the message was versed, it meant only one thing. Someone who had been involved in the killings of three women a decade ago, someone who had recently systematically and deviously engineered the deaths of three of the detectives who had worked the case, had turned his attention to Jim Brass now. Somehow...some way...perhaps very soon...that someone would make an attempt on Jim's life.

When he had finally glanced at her, acknowledging her prescence, Cecilia had seen that understanding in the depths of his dark eyes. She was surprised that there was no fear reflected there, only a calm acceptance of the reality of the situation.

She had been unable to say anything to him. Not even a simple good morning, or to ask how he was doing. Let alone to give voice to the concerns and fears that scrambled through her, that made her want to wrap her arms around Jim and pull him close and to feel the reassurance of the steadily beating heart beneath his solid chest. In the midst of her worry, Cecilia felt the first flarings of anger, and the cold realization that if she knew who was doing this, if she could put a face to this threat...she could kill for Jim.

"Thanks, Ronnie," Brass was saying now. "Well, I guess we'd better get this to Trace then." His tone was matter-of-fact. Professional. It might have been the case of a stranger that he was investigating.

Once the letter had been left there, both it and the envelope to be dusted for prints, and vacuumed for anything that might give them a clue to its writer's identity...cigarette smoke, a particular brand of cologne, anything unique...the trio returned to Grissom's office.

Once there, Gil filled Brass in on what they had discovered last night, and the faint lead that they were now pursuing. The human skin and tissue that had been taken from Beth Marchison's nails that had _not_ come from Todd Juneau. It had been typed and was currently waiting on DNA testing. For the first time that morning, Brass had shown an emotional reaction. But rather than the elation that Cecilia might have expected, since they at last had an angle to pursue, Jim instead seemed angry.

"How could this have been missed at the time of the original investigation? How could something like that get overlooked?"

Grissom had regarded the other man thoughtfully. "I don't know. It indicates reason to question whether Juneau was the killer, or if he was, whether he was working alone. It's clear forensic evidence that might exonerate Juneau, and implicate someone else." He paused. "It's the only _true_ bit of forensic evidence in the case," Gil stated quietly. "Other than the fingerprint on Hegel's car."

"And that just ties Juneau to the vehicle," Brass observed morosely. "Not to the victim herself, not to Marilyn Hegel's body."

Grissom nodded his agreement.

"So, we already know that there was someone else involved," Catherine spoke. "The person who wrote the letters. And whoever wrote those letters, had information that only the killer, or someone close to him, would know. Information about the victim's undergarments, for example." She furrowed her brow. "And Beth Marchison might have gotten a piece of the man who attacked her. Someone working with Juneau."

"The killer wasn't the only one who had that information," Brass reminded her. "Anyone working the case, or with access to the files, would know those details. We can't rule out someone on the inside." He steepled his hands, deep in thought. "If there wasn't this evidence of another person at the scene, I could almost entertain that the letters were _separate_ from the crimes themselves. That Juneau might be the killer, and still have nothing to do with the letters. That if for some reason, someone on our side was responsible for them, Juneau might not even know they existed. And that person, for whatever reason, decided to start killing the cops who worked the case."

"What motive?" Grissom asked. "Professional jealousy?"

Brass shrugged. "We were so _sure_ Juneau was the killer. Because of his connection to Marilyn Hegel. Because of what we found at his house. He _had_ been stalking her. They had had an argument the day she went missing. But what if he _wasn't_ the killer after all?" The enormity of that implication, the theory that he has been considering since he had spoken with Sharon Gracin, overwhelmed him.

"So why would Juneau run?" Catherine asked. "Why would he try to evade arrest?"

"I think I know why he might," Brass suggested. He shared with them his conversation with Juneau's sister, what he had learned about the man's past, and the things Jim had conjectured after speaking with her.

"Even if he didn't kill Marchison, or write the letters," Catherine continued, "that doesn't mean he didn't know about the letters, or kill the other women, or that he wasn't involved in some way."

"Serial killers rarely partner up," Grissom commented.

"I don't think Todd Juneau knew about the letters," Cecilia spoke then hesitantly. "If whoever wrote the letters killed Marilyn Hegel...I don't think it was someone who knew her. And if Todd Juneau worked with her, and had been stalking her, he knew her very well. And if he knew her, and had a partner, the partner would have learned those things as well, it seems." Cecilia blushed as three pairs of eyes stared at her intently. Listening to the investigators talk things over, had made her recall something. She felt uncomfortable, wondering if she was overstepping.

"What do you mean, Cecilia?" Catherine encouraged gently.

"Well...where's the copy of the letter that police received after Marilyn Hegel was murdered?" she asked.

"It's in the other room," Catherine said. "I'll be back in a sec."

Cecilia glanced at Jim who was looking at her curiously. He gave her a small smile of encouragement and she relaxed. There was no harm, she decided, in sharing her own thoughts with the others. They were just trying to talk things through, to brainstorm, and nothing was too insignificant to overlook.

Catherine returned with the copy of the letter, and she handed it to Cecilia. Cecilia cleared her throat and read it aloud.

"_Dear Officers of the LVPD,_

_Oh my. How embarassing for you. You've failed again. I waited for you to come knocking, to put an end to this, but you didn't. You let another one die. Again, I ask, who then is to blame? _

_She was another nobody. You know, she wasn't even a natural blonde. And there was a scar, low across her belly. I think the bitch had whelped at one point in the past. She was wearing white, cotton panties. How very pedestrian._

_How did she look when you found her? I'm afraid I lost my temper a bit. A temper is the bane of the wicked._

_I await you._"

More confident now, Cecilia explained. "It doesn't sound like whoever wrote this letter was acquainted with Marilyn Hegel at all. He calls her a nobody. I don't know anything about stalkers, or that kind of obsession," she admitted, "but if Todd Juneau was pursuing her...as a romantic interest...I don't know why he would refer to her as a _nobody._ And not just a nobody but _another _nobody. No different from the first victim, Jada Miller. But Marilyn Hegel _was_ different to Todd Juneau.

"And if he knew her, he knew she had children. Todd Juneau had taken pictures of her at the park with them. Yet in the letter it refers to a Caesarian scar, and thinking she had _whelped._" Cecilia hesitated to say the term out loud. It was so derrogatory and so dismissive of motherhood. And whelping implied dogs, and bitches, another unflattering term often applied to women. "Anyhow," she concluded, self-conscious again, "I was just thinking about it now, remembering the letter. You already know that Juneau didn't write the letters himself, of course, but when you were talking about whether or not he might be aware of them it just struck me. And of course, someone might just have been trying to throw you off track, to make it seem like someone who was a stranger to Marilyn Hegel killed her..." Cecilia's voice trailed off.

Grissom was the first to speak. "Well done, Cecilia," he said. There was nothing condescending in his praise, and his wry smile reassured her.

"We should have caught that," Brass said hollowly. "We thought that Juneau wrote the letters, that he was the killer. We weren't even thinking about a partner. But you're right. We should have questioned if Juneau, who knew Hegel, would write something like that about her." He sighed his frustration. How badly had he botched the case, years ago? Physical evidence that did not match the suspect, O positive epithelials, overlooked. A letter that raised questions about whether or not its writer had a prior relationship with the victim, which their suspect indeed had. Yes, there had been good reason to suspect Juneau as the killer. But had there been _enough_ reason? Or had they been too eager to solve the case? Too quick to be judge and jury?

_You demonize the innocent, and allow the wicked to go free. While others pay the price for your failure._ Those were the words in the letter Jim had received, he recalled, while the tiny hairs at the back of his neck, stood on end. Had Juneau been entirely innocent? Had they failed to read the signs? Were Martens, Keeth and Takei all dead now because none of them had done their jobs properly? Because _he_ hadn't done his job properly?

In the midst of his regrets, Jim felt proud of Cecilia. She was a civilian, not a trained investigator. She had only been privy to the case for a short while. And she had seen something that seasoned professionals had missed. Something that Catherine...hell something that _Grissom_ had missed. The fact that neither of them had considered the letter about Hegel's murder possibly indicative of Juneau's innocence did nothing to assuage Brass' own feelings of guilt. He had worked the case for weeks, it had been his only priority at the time. The four of them...Martens, Keeth, Takei and himself...had _lived_ it. He was a good cop, a good detective, Jim prided himself on that. But there were so many things about the Juneau case, that it appeared he had screwed up. With consequences that he might never have imagined, he realized, as he looked at Cecilia seated there. Inches away, but farther from him than might ever be reconciled, before he was able to finally right decade old wrongs. If the killer didn't try to right them in his own way first.

"Very good. Thanks," Brass said to her now. "We'll have to talk to the Sheriff about putting you on the payroll." He grinned. Hiding his pride in her, and his longing for her, in the easy banter that was his trademark.

Jim's smile warmed Cecilia. What she had pointed out might mean absolutely nothing. But it could mean something. And if she could do anything to help at all, she wanted to. And she didn't want there to be an uncomfortableness between she and Jim. She didn't want him to feel that he had to avoid her, because he was worried she might behave like a petulant woman scorned. Maybe they couldn't be lovers, maybe Jim didn't feel about her the way she felt about him, but Cecilia hoped that they could at least still be friends.

"Well, I need a change of scenery," Catherine put in then. "And something to eat. Anybody up for breakfast?"

"I think that sounds like a great idea," Grissom agreed. "Fuel the body, fuel the mind."

"I'm in," Cecilia said.

"I'm going to head over to the office," Jim declined. He was already wary enough, just being here together with the others at the lab. While he didn't think there was really any danger for them, that the killer would try to make a move here, he was acutely aware that he had no real idea _what_ the killer had in store for him, or how soon he would make an attempt on Jim's life. And he believed that the danger increased out in public. Even something as simple as going out for ham and eggs at the corner diner, might put any one of them in the way of a death intended for him. The thought made Brass feel sick inside.

"I bet you didn't even have breakfast this morning, did you?" Catherine asked him. "And I'd understand if you don't feel much like eating, but even if you just have some coffee and toast..."

"No!" Jim stated, more vehemently than he had intended. "Thanks. I'll get something later. There are a couple of things I want to look into, while you're waiting to hear back from Trace and DNA."

Cecilia's cheeks grew hot. She could imagine why Jim had refused the invitation for breakfast. It was because he didn't want to be too familiar, or to give her any reason to hold out some hope that they might still pick up where they had left off. He wanted to keep his distance. No distractions. He wanted to make sure she understood that it was over.

"Okay," Catherine replied, bemused at his adamant rejection of her suggestion. "When we hear something, we'll call you."

Brass stood up, preparing to leave them. "Thanks. And good work, with the thing about the blood types. Maybe this time it won't be another dead end." His voice was light, but they all heard the undercurrent of frustration.

When he was almost to the door, Gil called, "Jim! Just a minute." Grissom followed him and they stepped out into the hall.

"What's up?" Brass asked.

"Now that you've gotten that letter," Grissom said pointedly, "it changes things." His blue eyes scrutinized the other man's face. "You're too close to the case now. You should recluse yourself, hand it over to someone else."

Brass stared back at Gil intently. "There's no way in hell I'm going to walk from this." Grissom held his glare. "Is that going to be a problem?"

Gil heard the challenge. "I'm not your boss," he said levelly. "It's not my call to make." He hesitated. "But you know what can happen, when someone is too personally involved."

"Three cops that I knew and worked with, one of them who was my partner for a while, are dead," Brass reminded him. "It's been personal from the beginning. This letter doesn't change anything, as far as I'm concerned. This was my case, years ago, and it's my case now. I'm working it til it's over. One way or another."

In the words, Grissom heard Brass' acceptance of the danger. It was the closest any of them had come to saying aloud what all of them were thinking. This would end one of two ways. They would catch the killer before he could move again, and put an end to the killing at last. Or the killer would strike before they could get to him, and claim his final target.

Grissom wasn't sure if Brass could compartmentalize enough to work the case, do it well enough not to compromise it, and still be on guard enough to prevent an unknown foe from taking his life. A policeman's life, his future, was uncertain from the moment he took the oath and put on the uniform and badge. There was always risk. Always danger. Some of it that could be anticipated and guarded against, and some of it that could not. Gil knew that a cop learned to deal with that.

But this was different. This wasn't just a hazard of the job, that any cop might expect to face. This was personal. Calculated. In addition to all of the regular dangers of the profession, there was now a clear and serious threat on Brass' life. Gil had a great deal of respect for Jim Brass, for the kind of cop he was, and he knew firsthand that he was steady. Tough. It wouldn't be easy for the killer to get into Jim's head and defeat him that way, Grissom knew. But everyone had his limit. Would Gil know when Brass had reached his? Should he even let it go that far?

"I just had to say it," Gil relented at last. "Like I said, it's not my call to make."

"That's right," Brass agreed icily. "It's not. You said your piece, I said mine. That's the end of it." He waited a moment, and when the scientist neither agreed nor disagreed, he added stoically, "Enjoy your breakfast, Gil." As Brass continued down the corridor, he wondered to himself how many of the people who were important to him, he would alienate before this was over. When it came right down to it, Brass was going to have to face this particular demon alone. The killer was slowly separating him from the others around him, and the damnedest thing about it, was that Brass was having to help him. And even if Brass was victorious in the end...what would it have cost him along the way?

Catherine was surprised by the distance between Jim and Cecilia. Something was wrong between them. She hesitated to say anything to the writer just now, Grissom would be back in a moment, and there was no time for observations and explanations. But later, when the women were alone, Catherine was determined to speak up.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

As Brass drove to the office, he kept his eyes on a black, newer model Ford Taurus, two cars back, that had slipped into traffic behind him, soon after Jim had left the parking lot of the lab. He could see in the riewview mirror that the driver was a man. Caucasian. Dark sunglasses. It maintained that same distance for a couple of blocks, turning when Brass did at an intersection. Was it just a coincidence, or was he being followed? Jim turned at the next right, down a one way lane, slowing as he did so. The Taurus continued on at the same speed, the angle not conducive to Brass' obtaining a plate number. The driver made no attempt to follow, he didn't slow or switch lanes, not even turning his head in Jim's direction as he went by. False alarm.

How many more vehicles would he think might be trailing him, their driver potentially a cold-blooded killer playing a deadly game? How many strangers would Jim eye with suspicion in the next days, or weeks? How long could he maintain this heightened sense of being on guard? On checking and double checking every detail? He would wear himself out in no time. Especially if he continued to get just a couple of hours of fitful sleep each night. Last night, Jim hadn't even made it to his bed. Exhausted, sitting in his home office, his eyes had finally closed, his head had lolled and his body had finally shut down, eventually succumbing to its need for rest. The respite had been brief though.

But if Jim let his guard down, if he stopped searching shadows, and stopped being suspicious of strangers, that would be the time that the killer would make his move. Had that happened to Denny, Jim wondered now? Had Denny Martens kept the letter, been discomfitted by it, perhaps been extra vigilent for a while? Until at last, convinced that it didn't really mean anything, he'd relaxed, lulled into a false sense of safety and security? And then finally, the killer had struck. Mowing him down in the middle of the street under a hot Vegas sun, while distracted with a cup of coffee, a brown bag with a donut, and thoughts of his upcoming golf game, Denny had left himself exposed.

But Denny had never really understood the significance of the letter or the severity of the threat. Jim did. He had that edge. And he didn't have to just sit around and wait for the killer to come to him. They had a possible lead now, however small. And Jim had finally admitted to himself that proof of Todd Juneau's culpability in the murders was sketchy and circumstantial at best. He would go back to the beginning. And somewhere, he would find what they had missed the first time around.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

The burden for conversation at breakfast rested heavily on Catherine's slim shoulders that morning. She had envisioned a light-hearted meal, the four of them doing their best to clear away thoughts of the case, so that they could recharge and go back at it with renewed vigor and a fresh perspective. But then Jim had declined, almost moodily so. And now Grissom, never exactly a chatterbox, was even more withdrawn and introverted than normal. She knew that he had to be upset, knowing that Brass was a target. Gil had known Jim for years, and the detective was as close a thing to a friend as Grissom had. But if he was carrying any personal fears or worries, Gil wasn't sharing them. Which, as frustrating as that was, didn't really surprise Catherine.

Gil hadn't opened up to her about Sara's leaving either. He had announced in the break room at start of shift last week that he had hired Paul Tennyson to replace the departing CSI. Tennyson would report to the lab next week. Sara had taken a few days of time owed and was at Quantico right now, interviewing for a position with the FBI. It wasn't hard for Catherine to imagine Sara Sidle as a Fed, actually. Sara had the kind of tenacity that Catherine felt would take her far in that organization, if that was indeed where she ended up. It was still hard to think of Sara not being there at the lab any more though.

As was the case with her relationship with Gil, while there were things that exasperated Catherine about Sara, things she didn't understand and simply couldn't relate to, there was a woman beneath the troubled exterior, that Catherine respected and cared for. And she would miss that Sara. As she knew Gil would, even if he never admitted that to her. Or even to himself.

Catherine watched Cecilia push her hashbrowns and eggs around her plate, in a pretense of eating them. Mostly, the brunette just held the steaming mug of coffee between both hands, as though she needed something to warm her, despite the already oppressive late summer heat. Her expressive, dark eyes would stare into the mocha liquid, and Catherine could read the sorrow there.

So, Catherine donned the mantle of normalacy for all of them. That was her strength. Her gift. And she tried to give Cecilia and Gil something else to think about, if only for a moment or two, while she told them all about the summer camp that Lindsey was attending in the mountains outside of Vegas. With log cabins, a crystal clear lake and canoes, and horses for trail riding through the scenic locale. She left out the fact that the camp was exclusive and expensive, normally something beyond her salary as a CSI, but that she had paid for it with some of the money that Sam Braun had given her one time. A cheque from a father to a daughter. Catherine paused in her description of the camp, wondering for a moment how or when, or even if, she would ever tell Lindsey that the casino mogul was her biological grandfather.

Then Catherine pushed her own ruminations aside, and launched into a one-sided discussion about a newly released film she was eager to see. Trying to pull Cecilia and Gil outside of themselves long enough to give them a break from their own troubled thoughts.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Greg listened to the whirl and spin of the vials, watching them circle at high speed, unable to distinguish one from another in the blur. Or maybe it was just his eyes that were blurred. Despite loading up on Blue Hawaiian, Greg was beat. Day shift had come on, and Keri had taken over the work for tomorrow's prelim, leaving Greg free to pursue this sample from Catherine.

He waited expectantly, as the machine slowed, crossing over to the printer. If everything had gone right, if he had had a viable enough sample, in another minute or two he would have the DNA profile of whoever had provided the epithelials found on the murdered woman. And Catherine might have the break she needed.


	38. Chapter 38

_I had to lol at your offer of pizza, Gib, hehehe! I actually don't work, so you'd think I'd have more time to just sit around and write, eh? ;-)_

_Beaujolais, sorry to hear you've been under the weather. Coincidentally, I'm fighting a lousy head cold right now too. And writing helps me to sneak away from reality and forget my misery for a while._

_Thanks for the continued readership of this story. Cathy._

Chapter 38

Catherine stared at the computer screen in disbelief. Cecilia, who had been standing beside her chair, stopped talking in midsentence, as she watched CODIS bring up the results of the search the criminalist had ordered, using the DNA sample that Greg had been able to successfully process. Catherine looked up at Cecilia wordlessly, then reached for her cell phone.

"Brass," the familiar deep voice answered at the other end.

"Jim, it's me. I'm at the lab. I've got something you need to see," Catherine told him slowly.

Brass didn't press for details. "On my way."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim was entirely unprepared for what Catherine had discovered. When he walked into the lab and Cecilia had turned at his arrival, he had noted immediately how pale she looked. She had both arms crossed at her chest, her hands gripping her upper arms tightly, hugging close against her body. There was fear and confusion in her beautiful, dark eyes. Catherine pushed back a bit from the computer and crooked her head to look at him as well. The thin set of her compressed lips, the tightness in her jaw, and the uncertainty in her gentian blue gaze, made his footsteps slow.

"I got a CODIS hit," Catherine said, but there was none of the jubilation in her tone that he might have expected. Instead, her voice was thick with foreboding.

She wouldn't, or couldn't, say more, waiting for him to get near enough to the screen so that he could see her discovery for himself. Catherine pulled another chair next to hers...Cecilia seemed to prefer to stand...and Jim settled himself next to the criminalist. Taking a deep breath, Catherine touched the keyboard, and the results of the CODIS search flashed up on the screen.

Jim read silently to himself. Feeling the bile rise in his gorge as he worked his way backwards, starting with the most recent entry of unsolved cases.

December of two years ago. Los Angeles, California. Sexual assault. Female victim bludgeoned to death. Pubic hair recovered from the scene, matched the DNA from the scrapings taken from Beth Marchison's nails.

February of that same year. Spokane, Washington. Another female victim. Again, a sexual assault. Killed by a blow to the head with a heavy, blunt object. Semen recovered from the scene was a match to the Marchison sample.

July, three years before that. Tacoma, Washington. Female, raped, beaten to death. DNA extracted from epithelials taken from beneath the victim's nails, matched those recovered from Beth Marchison.

Two years before that murder, November, Chicago, Illinois. Female victim. COD was blunt force trauma to the head. Sexual assault. DNA testing matched it to the Marchison case.

In the last nine years, four women had been sexually assaulted and killed by whoever had left his DNA on Beth Marchison. Their serial killer had stopped murdering women in Las Vegas. But he hadn't stopped _killing._

"We got a memo from the Feds about this guy," Brass said huskily. "After the Spokane murder. Notification of an unknown serial. Not much evidence to go on. Nothing to tie the victims. No viable suspects." He paused, the muscles in his right jaw working furiously. "We let the bastard walk away, and he killed again."

_While others pay the price for your failure. _The words from the recently received note taunted Jim.

Cecilia reached a hand to touch Jim's shoulder, before realizing what she was doing. She let it remain just briefly, savouring the contact, his flesh warm and solid beneath the shirt.

Jim closed his eyes for a moment as Cecilia's hand rested on his shoulder. He'd been craving her touch since she had walked out of his apartment the other morning. He wanted to reach up and take her fingers in his hold, and clasp them tightly. Taking sustinence from her caring. He couldn't, of course, he had to keep her at a distance. Jim was afraid that if he let her back in again, even for a moment, it would weaken his resolve. And above all, he had to protect her. To keep her safe. Nothing mattered more to him than that.

Catherine watched Cecilia reach for Jim, then let her hand fall away again. She hadn't had a chance to talk with the writer yet, to ask her about she and the detective. They had returned to the lab from breakfast, just as Greg had been about to page her. Their priority had been to enter the data in CODIS, on the off chance that they might get something interesting. Catherine had been stunned at what the search had turned up, and the full import hadn't quite hit her yet. Grissom was in a supervisors' meeting, with Ecklie and Helen Chang, and as yet was unaware of this latest discovery.

These were just the cases where there had been a DNA match, Brass knew. That didn't mean that their guy hadn't killed more women. Just that they hadn't been able to link him to other crimes. How many unsolved murders in other, smaller towns, where the department might not even have a CSI unit, or where the killer had just gotten lucky and not left a DNA calling card, could also be attributed to the same man? Or how many cases had there been when the cops had made a mistake? Focused on the wrong suspect? Convicted an innocent man? Just like had happened with Todd Juneau.

All these years, Brass hadn't given another thought to the Holiday Murders. Even when the FBI memo had crossed his desk. He'd read it, made a mental note to watch for any similar cases that should surface in Vegas, then filed it. Never dreaming that there was any connection to the deaths they had attributed to Juneau. Never realizing that his ineptitude nine years ago had let a killer go free.

"Did the FBI memo say anything about the police receiving a letter from the killer after the murders," Catherine asked. Jim shook his head. "That's different from the Vegas cases."

"Changed his MO maybe," Brass shrugged. "Didn't want us to link him."

_They had let the wicked go free. _And after claiming at least four more victims, the killer had made another switch. He'd begun to go after the detectives involved in the botched Vegas case. Takei first, in Los Angeles. Starting with Joe because the killer had happened to remain in California after the murder of the co-ed?

"We're going to need everything we can get on these other cases," Brass intoned.

"While we were waiting for you, I made some calls." Catherine told him. "We'll have to notify the Feds too," she continued hesitantly. "Co-ordinate our efforts."

Brass frowned. "I'll take care of it."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

By the time Gil was finished his meeting, just after noon, the reports had begun to come in. Catherine had commandeered a table in his office, where she organized the information they were receiving about the other murders. CODIS contained only minimal information about the crimes.

The most recent of the cases, was the one from December, two years previously. The half-naked body of a twenty-year old college student, attending UCLA, had been discovered in a park three blocks from her dorm. Jennifer Hales, caucasian, red-haired and blue-eyed, moderately overweight, had been sexually assaulted and bludgeoned to death. A hickory baseball bat had been recovered from the scene, and hair and blood matched the victim. There were no prints on the murder weapon. Pubic hair recovered from the victim's body, matched the DNA from the scrapings taken from Beth Marchison's nails.

Initially, Hales' ex-boyfriend had been a suspect, since there had been a recent break-up following a volatile relationship. But the DNA excluded him, and indicated that the killer was responsible for three previous murders, two in Washington, and one in Chicago.

February of that same year, the body of a thirty-year old female factory worker, Debbie Lutz, was found in a wooded ravine behind the building where she worked in Spokane, Washington. Lutz was caucasian, a brown-eyed brunette. She had been sexually assaulted, and killed by a blow to the head with a heavy, blunt object. The murder weapon was never found. A small semen sample, recovered from leafy debris beneath the victim's partially clad body, turned out to be a match to another suspect from another Washington state murder three years before. The same suspect was also wanted in a Chicago killing two years prior to that.

Pending DNA analysis, there had been no suspects in Lutz's murder. Other than the DNA link to the other murders, police had nothing to identify the suspect.

Kaleigh Dupre, a twenty-eight year old waitress, in Tacoma, Washington, had been found dead in her home by her boyfriend on July 5th, after she had failed to meet him at the home of a mutual friend the afternoon before for an Independence Day get together. Concerned that Dupre had not called to cancel, and was not answering her phone, the boyfriend had gone to her home the following day. Looking through a bedroom window at the rear of her bungalow, he had seen Dupre's body prone on the floor. He had called 911 and police had arrived at the scene. The coroner had placed the time of death within the previous twenty-four hours; the victim had still been in rigor. Dupre was caucasian, a petite, grey-eyed blonde.

Dupre had been raped and severely beaten. As in the Marchison case, epithelials retrieved from scrapings of the victim's nails, had been entered into CODIS, and a hit found with a similar murder in Chicago two years beforehand.

It was the third week of November that the nude and frozen body of thirty-four year-old, married bank teller, Claire Delsordo had been discovered by teens who were taking a short cut through a wooded area, to an outdoor skating rink at a municipal park in Chicago, Illinois. Delsordo was Latina, tall, with dark brown hair and eyes. Based on when she had last been seen, and taking into account the weather and mean temperature, the time of death was estimated to have been within twenty-four to thrity-six hours before she was found. Foreign saliva recovered from the victim's mouth did not match that of her husband.

A neighbour with whom Delsordo was having an on-going dispute, and whom she had gotten a restraining order against, was brought in for questioning. In addition to his having an alibi, his DNA was not a match for that recovered from the victim. The husband as well had been briefly investigated and deemed not to be a suspect. Further investigation into the possibility of Delsordo's having had an affair, which the foreign saliva might have indicated, failed to turn up anything. Eventually, as leads petered out, the investigation went into the cold case files.

Cecilia had read about the cases with mounting horror. What kind of animal was doing this? This was the same man who had murdered the three detectives? The one who had just sent the letter to Jim, and was targeting him next? He was like a ghost in the wind, no one knew anything about him. There were no clues, no leads, other than that he had left behind a piece of his DNA at the scenes. But all that did was tell them that the same man had committed the murders. It didn't offer up anything at all about who that man might be, or point them in even the vaguest direction so that they could begin to track him down. They knew it was the same killer. But other than that...they had nothing.

"Other than the victims being adult female, I don't see any pattern," Gil remarked curiously. "There are differences in age, marital status, general appearance, body type, hair and eye colour, and even ethnic differences."

"So how is he choosing his victims?" Catherine queried aloud. "Totally random? Based purely on opportunity?" She shook her head. "I can't see him just wandering around until he chances upon some woman who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Either the guy travels, professionally or for vacation, or he's moved around in the last nine years," Brass stated. "Nevada. Illinois. Washington. California."

"The length of time between the murders would tend to favour vacation travel, rather than business travel," Grissom suggested. "It seems more sporadic."

"Yeah, but who vacations in Chicago in November?" Catherine asked wryly. Then to Brass, "Did you ever find a connection between the vics in the Holiday Murders?"

Jim tilted his head. "We figured the commonality was probably the supermarket. Juneau knew Hegel from there. Marchison lived a few blocks away from the store, and even though none of the staff remembered her as a regular, there was a good chance she might have stopped in before, for bread or milk or something, and Juneau might have noticed her then.

"Miller, we couldn't find a connection for. We figured she was just random, a trial run, and because she was a pro, she was an easy mark." He sighed heavily. "Of course, if Juneau wasn't the killer, than I don't think the supermarket was the epicentre. And other than that, I don't recall if there were any other similarities between the vics. I'll have to go back over the files."

"There's a connection," Gil asserted, "we just don't see it yet. There's a reason he chose all of these women. Something brought them to his attention." He rubbed his chin.

Brass' brow furrowed. "So the guy leaves Vegas nine years ago, or stops killing here, and picks it up again two years later in Chicago. He kills Delsordo. Two years after that, in Tacoma, Washington, he murders Dupre. He waits another three years, and then Lutz turns up dead in Spokane. Ten months after that, Hales is killed in L.A. He's escalating again.

"Then, he takes another break, for two more years. Until he goes after Joe Takei, also in L.A. Then several months later, he's back in Vegas. Denny Martens is killed in an apparent hit-and-run. A month later, Elliott Keeth gets incinerated in Laughlin. Escalating again. Only now his vics aren't women anymore, they're the cops who investigated the Vegas murders nine years ago. Why?" The crevices in Brass' forehead deepened.

"Maybe he wants the killing to stop," Catherine suggested. "He wants to get caught."

"I don't think he wants to get caught," Grissom disagreed. "He made the murders of Takei, Martens and Keeth all look like accidents. He stopped sending letters after the Vegas murders nine years ago. Altered his MO. But he started sending letters again, when he began killing the cops. But just to the individuals, not to the force. He didn't take credit for those three murders, but it's as though he wanted _them_ to know. Except he was so vague, none of them understood the connection with the Juneau case."

"There's nothing in CODIS prior to the Vegas murders nine years ago," Catherine observed. "Do you think this is where it all started?"

"It probably _started_ long before that," Grissom commented. "Way back in childhood when something happened to damage his psyche, or even some chromosomal blip before birth. And there was probably the usual progression. Cruelty to animals. Abuse and torture leading to killing neighbourhood pets. Possibly sexual assault as a teen against a friend, neighbour, or younger, weaker family member. The first murder might have been in Vegas. But that wasn't the start of things," Gil surmised.

"And now he's blaming the detectives who worked the first cases, for not catching him before, and is punishing them for it?" Catherine asked uncertainly. "Why? Is he feeling remorseful or something?"

"We don't have enough yet to make too many conjectures," Grissom said. "It'll be interesting to see what a profiler has to say."

"We thought it was Juneau," Brass said woodenly, "but we had no solid evidence to support that. And we let the real killer walk away. And now seven more people are dead." He looked up, his face slack, as though unable to absord that reality. "We had the evidence then, that there was someone else, but we didn't do anything with it." He shook his head.

"Juneau was a good bet," Catherine consoled. "And he was a creep. We know now he'd sexually assaulted his own sister, and at least one other young woman. At the time, he was stalking Marilyn Hegel. Fantasizing with increasingly violent porn. He was a viable suspect, and I think he eventually might have killed Hegel, or at least attacked and raped her, except that someone else got to her first. He wasn't some choir boy, Jim."

"He ran from police, which was highly indicative of guilt. And after Juneau's death, the killings here stopped," Grissom added pointedly. "There was every reason to believe Todd Juneau was responsible for those murders."

Brass looked at the supervisor, his dark eyes clouded. "We should have questioned the O positive epithelials. You would have."

Gil looked uncomfortable. "From a forensic standpoint, there wasn't enough to convict Juneau. It was up to the CSI investigator to interpret what evidence there was." He hesitated. "Jim, while the science is always exact, our interpretations aren't. Sometimes we draw the wrong conclusions. We make errors. It's happened to all of us. I've gone to trial with evidence that I believed was clear on culpability, and that a jury interpreted the same way. And while the evidence, as it was, was sound, the reality was that the accused was innocent. We're not omnipotent. We can only do the best we can with what we have."

"Hell of a lot of good that does to the families of the initial victims who thought they'd gotten closure. Or the four more women who've been killed in the last nine years, whose loved ones haven't seen justice done. The four that we _know_ of. And a hell of a lot of good it does Amy and Christian Martens, or Elliott Keeth's sons or his girlfriend Dana Asmundsen, or the sister of Joe Takei." The bitter words poured out of Brass. "The thing of it is we _didn't _do the best we could with what we had? Did we?" The self-recrimination hung heavy in the air.

"Nikki Giovanni said, _'Mistakes are a fact of life. It is the response to error that counts," _Grissom quoted the African-American poet, essayist and lecturer.

"Wow, that's really profound. Maybe I can get that engraved on the headstones of those three dead cops," Brass countered with deceptive lightness. "Or maybe I'll just save it for my own epitaph." He gave a humourless chuckle. "Sorry Gil, I guess I'm just not in the mood for your little snippets of wisdom. I think maybe I should go for a walk." He spun on heel and stalked out of the office.

Cecilia wanted to go after Jim. To say or do something to take away the anger, the suffering, and the self-reproach. She wanted to assuage the bitterness and the guilt. It hurt her, with a physical ache, to have to watch him trying to deal with all of this on his own. But Jim neither wanted nor needed her intervention, he had made that clear.

Grissom stood there looking confused. He glanced at Catherine, not knowing how to proceed.

"Just...give him some space," Catherine advised wearily.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass' walk didn't take him far. He found himself in Conrad Ecklie's office, before he had even consciously determined that he wanted to go there. He strode briskly into the room, where the dayshift supervisor, seated at his desk, looked up with mild curiosity.

"What can I do for you, Detective Brass?" Ecklie asked with cool formality. Ever since the sheriff had told him that Brass had reopened Martens hit-and-run, deliberately shutting him out, Ecklie's animosity had been building.

"The Holiday Murders. Juneau wasn't the killer," Brass began without preamble. "And whoever killed those women nine years ago, has killed since. We put the case to bed, but we had the wrong guy."

Ecklie's dark eyes glinted. "Really?"

"You were the lead crim on the case," Brass stated, and Ecklie wasn't sure whether or not there was an accusation in the deep, even tone. "There was something we all missed."

"And what was that, detective?" Ecklie asked.

"The last vic, Beth Marchison, the one who was killed in her home. You took a scraping from her fingernails. Identified it as type O positive. But Juneau was type A positive. That was the first real forensic evidence we had to point to the killer. But it got buried," Brass said with disgust. "How could that have happened? How could we not have realized what that might have meant?"

Ecklie's eyes shifted guiltily.

Brass felt as though he'd been sucker punched in the gut. "You _did_ realize it was important," he whispered hoarsely. "You _knew_ we might have the wrong guy, and you didn't say a damned thing." The words rang out, cold and accusing, while Brass' eyes narrowed.

"I had given that report to your partner Keeth," Ecklie retorted. "But you were all so convinced that Juneau was your guy. You went ahead and issued that arrest warrant, without even running it by me. Based on the circumstantial evidence you'd taken from his home, and the fingerprint I lifted from Hegel's car. _You_ detectives interpreted what that meant. You weren't looking at any other suspects, as far as you were all concerned Juneau was your guy!" Ecklie's cheeks had reddened, and he raised his voice in protestation.

"You should have said something!" Brass insisted, his anguish coming out as anger. "You knew about the blood type discrepancy. You knew what it might have meant. You should have said something!"

Ecklie rose from his chair now, his hands splayed on the desk in front of him. "_What _did I know, Brass? That Beth Marchison had someone else's skin under her fingernails, and not Juneau's? Even that didn't _prove_ a damned thing! That didn't necessarily mean that someone else was her attacker. It could have belonged to a boyfriend, or some one night stand she'd picked up, might have been normal transfer during an act of passionate, consensual intercourse. It could have meant a _lot_ of things." Ecklie stared back at Brass. "Takei took Juneau down and then it was all over. The killings stopped.

"If any one of you had come to me, just once, and said that you had some question about whether or not Juneau was the guy, I would have pressed further on the epithelials," Ecklie continued. "But you didn't. And the suspect was dead. And the killings stopped.

"Do you know how many cases this lab processes over the course of a year? You were supervisor here at the lab, before you screwed up the Gribbs thing," Ecklie reminded with malicious pique. "You know what kind of pressure there is. We had a _solved _case. Do you know how many other _unsolved_ cases I had waiting for me after that? Every one one of them just as important to the people involved? We work on one case, then we go on to the next, there's no time to dwell over each and every little detail. You know how it works.

"I'm not going to be the fall guy here!" Ecklie's face contorted. "We _all_ did the best jobs we could. If there had been any doubt about Juneau's guilt...if there had been a single other killing here in Vegas like the Holiday Murders...I would have pressed about the unknown epithelials. I didn't bury anything. I didn't know _what_ that evidence meant. Yeah, I might have wondered, initially. But just like you, Martens, Keeth and Takei, once Juneau was dead, I believed we had the right guy." Conrad considered what he had learned about Brass re-opening the investigation into Denny Martens hit-and-run. Did that have something to do with the old Juneau case? It had to be more than a coincidence. Martens had worked that case, nine years ago. Brass has questions about Martens' recent death. And now Brass was relooking into the Holiday Murders.

Ecklie paused drawing breath, trying to calm himself. He looked out past the windowed wall of his office, to where two lab workers stood, watching the confrontation between he and Brass. Conrad lowered his voice, and sat back down. "If you're feeling guilt about the way _you_ handled the case, that's yours to shoulder," he said firmly. "If Juneau wasn't the killer, if someone else was, and if he did kill again, then I'm sorry to hear that. Sorrier than you'll probably ever know. But I'm not going to beat myself up about the way I did my job nine years ago. And I'm not going to let _you _beat me up about it either." Ecklie's chin jutted determinedly.

_Ecklie's right, _Brass thought grimly. Even if Conrad could have done things differently, the forensic scientist hadn't been negligent in his handling of the case. Everything he said was true. And it wasn't going to help Brass carry the weight of his own guilt, to browbeat anyone else into feeling culpability too.


	39. Chapter 39

_Just a short one! Cathy._

Chapter 39

The last thing Brass was in the mood for, after returning to the precinct from the lab, was having to endure the sheriff.

"Brass!" Mobley called, as the detective unlocked the door to his office. "I want to talk to you for a minute."

Jim turned, trying to hide his disgruntlement. "Yeah, Sheriff?"

"How are things going with the investigation into Denny Martens' hit-and-run and the other accidental deaths?" Mobley queried. "You haven't reported back yet, about your trip to L.A." Mobley frowned. "I told you to keep me in the loop."

"I didn't learn anything new in L.A.," Brass told him. That wasn't a lie. He hadn't learned anything in Los Angeles that had helped him with the case. It was the information that Annie Kramer had called him with _afterwards_ that had provided a connection between Joe Takei's death and Denny Martens'. But that wasn't what Mobley had asked.

"We can't afford the man hours on this if nothing is going to pan out," Mobley cautioned.

"I'm working an angle," Brass told him evasively. He wasn't about to tell Mobley anything he had learned lately. He knew that the sheriff would insist he recuse himself, and as he had already told Grissom, there was no way Brass was going to give up the case.

It irritated Mobley to feel that he was having to cut Brass some slack because the detective was seeing Cecilia Laval, and because the writer had a connection to the Kellermans. He felt the mortification well up again, that the detective had gone behind his back that way, when Brian had already expressed his interest in Cecilia. Brass was probably laughing about it behind his back, telling other guys on the force how he'd scooped the writer out from under Mobley's nose and was sticking it to her just to spite the sheriff. He recalled how Conrad Ecklie had snickered at his unwitting declaration of his intention to ask Laval for a date. If there was one thing that Brian hated, it was to be the object of someone else's laughter or derision.

"I'll give you another couple of days," Mobley told him. "If you can't find anything to tie the deaths of the detectives together, nothing suspicious at all, you put it back to bed." Brass nodded curtly.

The sheriff turned, then seeming to remember something, looked back at the detective again. His pale lips curling in a sneer, he said quietly, "Speaking of putting things to bed, I was going to ask that writer, Laval, if she was interested in going to see the new Cirque show. But those tickets are hard to come by, even for me, and I wouldn't want to waste them, if she wasn't worth it. So just between you and I, is she a good lay?"

Mobley didn't even see Brass' right fist shoot out, only feeling it when it landed with a solid uppercut to his chin. Everything went dark for a moment, and then the sheriff was laying on the ground outside the detective's office, feeling dazed. Jim Brass stood above him, legs apart, rocked slightly forward on the balls of his feet, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. There was an icy fury in Brass' dark eyes.

"Don't you _ever_ talk about Cecilia that way again," Brass warned coldly, his voice low and ominous.

"I could have your stripes for this!" Mobley cried, outraged and humiliated. He glanced quickly up and down the hallway to see if anyone had observed the ignominy of what had just occured. Fortunately no one was around. Getting to his feet, his jaw and neck aching, his face flushed red with embarassment right up through his thinning scalp, he glared at the detective.

"You want my badge, you come and take it," Brass suggested.

"I could have your ass thrown in lock up for that, and you'd be exchanging civilian threads for a nice, orange jumpsuit." Mobely blustered the threat. "At the very least, I should bust you down to flatfoot. Gross insubordination. Assaulting a superior officer."

"You do what you have to do," the detective told him, holding his gaze with neither fear nor remorse.

Mobely hesitated. If he pressed charges against Brass, he would lose any and all professional respect he had with the men, from that moment on. You didn't rat out a fellow cop, especially not for something like this. And if there were any direct and obvious repercussions against the detective, and Brass hinted that they had come because he'd decked the sheriff and put him on his back, Mobely would lose any personal respect he had ever earned as well. Brian was taller than Brass, and heavier, and the detective wasn't some young guy in his prime. It would be just as disasterous for the sheriff, if word of this incident got out, as it might be for the detective. And if the mayor and his wife took the detective's side, who knew how badly this might play out for Brian? Even though Brass was the one who was in the wrong.

Jim Brass would pay for this, but it would have to be at another time. In another way. Swallowing his pride for the moment, Mobley gave a thin smile. "Look, sorry, I didn't know it was true love," he said with sardonic condescension. "What do you say we just forget all about this little misunderstanding?"

"Yeah, okay Brian," Brass agreed with forced geniality. But the cold disgust in his eyes made Mobely wonder if the detective might not still take another swing at him.

Mobely backed away, not wanting to take his eyes off of the other man. "And remember, if you don't get anywhere with this case in a day or two, you drop it," he said, trying to reinstate his authority.

"Yeah, sure thing," Brass smiled thinly. Then the detective turned, entering his office and closing the door with a resounding thud as it shook in its frame.

_You just screwed with the wrong guy, Jimmy Boy, _Mobely thought darkly, as he continued on his way, rubbing his throbbing jaw.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass stood with his knees slightly bent, feet planted apart, arms fully extended, the gun gripped solidly between both hands. The black outline, drawn on stiff board, rushed towards him, zinging along the wire. Dark eyes, unwavering behind the safety goggles, were fixed on the target. Heavy ear protectors muffled the crack of the bullets as he squeezed the trigger in quick succession. His steady hands absorbed the familiar recoil. The acrid smell of gunpowder assailed his nostrils.

It was over in seconds, the target was slowing, and then it stopped. Jim assessed his handiwork. Each bullet was concentrated in the area of the chest, the majority of them in a tight spray in and around what would be the suspect's heart. It wouldn't have been arrogant to allow himself to feel a modicum of pride...he'd shot well...but Jim just reached impassively to rip the imaginary foe down, and tossed it aside with the others.

Then he was taking his stance again, ignoring the slight ache in his left shoulder. It had never quite been the same, after he'd taken that bit of lead all those years ago. He was the only one on the shooting range this afternoon. He'd signed out an entire box of ammunition, which would all have to be accounted for. Some departmental bean counter would probably cause a stink about that. This was the taxpayers' money that he was dispensing so casually, after all.

Brass sighed, allowing himself to be distracted for a moment with the memory of the satisfaction of nailing the sheriff. It had been a stupid move, career wise, of course. Mobely wasn't about to just agree to let bygones be bygones. Brass now had one more reason to watch his back. But when the sheriff had spoken about Cecilia that way, Brass had just felt the tension that had been steadily building in him, finally erupt with volcanic force. Mobely deserved to be dropped on his ass...for that remark and for more than a dozen other things he'd said and done during his career. It was long overdue, Brass figured pragmatically. And yeah, Mobely would be pissed, but Brass had much bigger things to worry about right now.

Unable to concentrate on the mountain of files on his desk, the detective had decided to come down to the shooting range, and work through his stress, clearing his head of everything except the precise mental and physical co-ordination that target practice required.

Focusing again, he hit the button, and at the other end of the range, a mechanism of cogs and wheels whirred to life, and another target rushed out towards him, while he took aim and fired.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

By early afternoon, Grissom had insisted that they all go home, get some rest, and return to the lab early evening. He had already left a voice mail for both Warrick and Nick, instructing the two men to come in for shift early, and letting them know that he had something new they were going to be working, which for the time being was taking precedence over every other case.

In the locker room preparing to head out, alone with Cecilia, Catherine was finally able to broach the subject of Jim Brass.

"I don't mean to pry," Catherine began, then corrected with a chagrined smile, "well, I guess I do, actually. But I can see something is up with you and Jim. Do you want to talk?"

Cecilia looked at Catherine uncertainly, and the criminalist saw the unguarded sadness in the writer's dark eyes. Cecilia had come to feel quite comfortable with the other woman. They had formed a closeness that Cecilia believed could be the base of a lasting friendship. She trusted Catherine Willows.

"I guess Jim and I were approaching things from totally different ends of the spectrum," Cecilia said quietly. "About our relationship. I know that it's my own fault for assuming too much. Because he never lead me on, never said anything to indicate that we were doing anything more than having some fun. Two consenting adults, together for a time because of circumstances." She hesitated, knowing that Catherine and Jim were friends, and while Cecilia did want to share with the blonde, she was unsure of how fair that was to Jim, and how comfortable he would be with her disclosures.

Cecilia chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. "I guess I just didn't want to think about what would happen when it came time for me to return to Erie. I was living in the moment. I...I let myself get too close, too fast."

Catherine nodded her understanding. Though if asked her opinion, she would had said that she had thought the same thing had happened to Jim. They were crazy about one another, as far as Catherine could tell. In all of the years that she had known him, she had never seen Jim Brass so happy. So contented. With such a ready smile on his face, and a lightness to his step.

"But I guess Jim was always looking towards a time when I would leave, and things would be over. He wasn't as...emotionally invested in things as I was. And now with all of this going on, he just doesn't have the time or the energy left over for anyone or anything else," Cecilia explained. "And I can understand that," she added quickly, "I really can. His focus has to be this case. It was only a matter of time til we said our good byes. I guess...I just wasn't ready for it to be so soon."

So, Jim had pushed Cecilia away. Catherine was surprised by that and puzzled. She would have thought having Cecilia's affection, her companionship, would have been a help to Brass at this time. It was hard to imagine that he could just cut the writer out of his life so abruptly. Catherine had believed that he really cared for Cecilia. But the truth was that she really didn't know much about Jim's private life with women. She knew his marriage had been a disaster. That it had made him leery of relationships. He'd dated some, no one woman for any real length of time, and he'd always kept that part of his life to himself for the most part.

Catherine realized that she had been concocting a fantasy of her own. That Catherine and Jim would fall for one another. Cecilia would stay in Las Vegas permanently. Catherine wouldn't have to say good bye to the woman that she had come to feel close to and to consider a friend. Jim would have someone to love and care for him, the way he deserved. And in turn, he would give Cecilia all of the love and loyalty that Catherine knew his big heart was capable of. There would be a happily ever after...for all of them.

"I'm sorry," Catherine said sincerely.

"Me too," Cecilia tried bravely to muster a smile. "I'll get over it eventually," she said. Though she wondered if that was true. "Now...now I'm just so worried about him."

"Jim's as sharp as they come," Catherine comforted. "He's on guard against this guy. He's been in stickier situations than this, and he knows how to handle himself." Cecilia knew that Catherine was talking about the undercover work Jim had down back in New Jersey. "Besides, we're on to this guy. He's been lucky so far. But we'll get him," the strawberry blonde insisted.

Catherine wasn't sure if her bravado was more for Cecilia's sake or for her own.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Jimmy, how's everything going?"

It was Annie Kramer. Brass was surprised to hear from her, though he knew he shouldn't have been. Of course, she would have been wondering about any progress he was making on the case. Wanting to know if he had been able to substantiate foul play in the deaths of Martens, Keeth and Takei. It was late afternoon. She was probably checking in before clocking out for the day and heading home to relax. With nothing more pressing to worry her than what she wanted for dinner and what she should watch on t.v. that night.

Brass didn't know what to say. He held the phone to his ear, while the silence stretched between them.

"You there?" Annie asked quizzically.

"Yeah, sorry, Annie," Brass sighed.

For a moment she had thought he hadn't recognized her voice. "Talk to me, Jimmy," she encouraged.

"I don't even know where to begin," he admitted.

Annie heard the weariness in his tone. A hollow confusion. He sounded unsure of himself, and that wasn't like the Jim Brass she knew at all. "You've found something," she said with understanding. "The connection. Martens, Keeth and Takei. I've been thinking about it a lot, Jimmy. Waiting to hear from you. We're supposed to be working on this together, right? Don't cut me out now. Not me, of all people."

Brass knew that the more people who were privy to this, the less chance he had of keeping control. But this was Annie Kramer. She had always played it straight with him. Always had his back. He could trust her.

Things had been escalating so quickly, but in spite of everything he had learned, Jim was no closer to solving his dilemma. The only thing he knew for sure now, was that he'd been wrong about Todd Juneau nine years ago. It had shaken his confidence. News of the other deaths weighed heavily on him. He hated knowing he was a target now. Hated this feeling of being backed against a wall. There was so much to deal with, so much to consider, and he felt wiped out. Alone.

_Don't cut me out now. Not me, of all people. _

Brass had taken a deep breath, and it had all poured out of him. Everything he had discovered since talking to Annie Kramer last. She listened, letting him get it all out, uninterrupted. He had heard her sharp intake of breath, when he'd told her about his connection to the Juneau case, and how he'd worked it with the others. About how he'd gotten a letter of his own. His told her everything he had learned, about the other murders over the last several years, every last detail, and finally the words had slowed and stopped altogether. Brass wasn't even sure how long he'd been talking, but his throat felt dry and parched.

"Christ, Jimmy," Annie murmured, stunned by the enormity of the revelations. Her heart constricted to know he was in danger. She had worked the Jennifer Hales case two years ago, the murdered twenty-year old UCLA student, but Annie didn't think she needed to tell Brass that just yet. The coincidence seemed surreal though. Annie wasn't sure what she wanted to say, and didn't know if she could get anything out past the lump in her throat, even if she had wanted to.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Swing shift started routinely enough. Hodges had heard the rumours about some big case that Grissom and Catherine Willows were working. Something that they were keeping really quiet about. Which, of course, had only piqued the curiosity of everyone working at the lab. Hodges was sure that he could be of help, if they would only think to ask. No one appreciated him here though, it seemed. And he tried really hard to be a part of things too. But it had always been that way for him. He was the guy whose jokes went over like lead balloons. Who everyone seemed to think was a know-it-all if he had something to contribute, whereas someone else would be praised and congratulated for their identical efforts.

He'd made friendly overtures. Invited people out for lunch, or for drinks. They'd always turned him down, often with self-important little smirks that he couldn't analyze. Hodges couldn't understand why it came so easily to some, but was so difficult for him. He liked and respected his co-workers; he wanted to be a part of things. To feel as though the work he did was worthwhile. He wanted to be in the middle of the laughter and the easy banter. But no matter how hard he tried, he was always on the outside looking in.

It had always been that way for him, everywhere he went, as far back as he could remember. And Hodges could never comprehend why. He didn't know what he was doing wrong, and no one would ever tell him. He never let on, but the rejection stung. He felt that he had something to offer, if anyone would just bother to take the time to look. To really _see_ him.

Dayshift had left work for him to finish up, not surprisingly enough. Matt was so unorganized. That was okay, Hodges would put things in order, and get started on the case that waited his attention. There was a letter, evidence in a new case, that needed to be vacuumed for trace. Putting on latex gloves, he removed it from the evidence bag. He crooked an eyebrow as he saw who the letter was addressed to. With heightened curiosity, he read it through.

_Dear Detective Brass,_

_How are you sleeping these nights, Detective? Does your conscience plague you? Are you bothered in the least by your own ineptitude? Or do you fall into bed and forget the world around you, so narcissistically wrapped up in your own feelings of moral and professional superiority?_

_To serve and protect. That's the creed. But sometimes, you fail. You demonize the innocent, and allow the wicked to go free. While others pay the price for your failure. In the end, Detective, we all have to pay a price for our mistakes. Our sins. Have you recognized yours yet?_

_Do you sleep well, Detective? Or are your dreams ever haunted with the repercussions of crossroads where you chose the wrong path?_

Now this was interesting. _Very _interesting. Did this have something to do with what Grissom and Catherine were working on? Hodges eyes were bright with expectation. He hadn't been able to get anything useful from that bottle that Captain Brass had brought in the other night. Perhaps he'd have better luck here. Hodges clipped the letter in place, then closed the glass case, and began to suction out the air in the tank, along with any of the invisible minutia that might be clinging to the parchment.

What did this weird letter to Brass mean? Whatever it might be, it was an interesting tidbit he could share at break time. For a moment or two, at least, when he casually mentioned its existence, people would take note of Hodges and for that brief while he would have their attention. And perhaps, however fleetingly, their grudging respect.


	40. Chapter 40

_Sorry for the typos in the last chapter. I've noticed some in other chapters as well, after the fact. My apologies. I write, then do a too-quick proofread, and then post, lol. I 'know' what its supposed to say, and you know how the mind can trick us, so instead of seeing what's there, I see what is 'supposed' to be there. As always, thank you for the readership and for any reviews. Cathy_

Chapter 40

Gil left Nick and Warrick in his office with Catherine, while the two men tried to absorb everything that Grissom had just told them about the case. He wasn't even sure how to refer to it. The old Juneau case? The Martens/Keeth/Takei case? The Brass case? The unidentified serial killer in California/Washington/Illinois case? There were so many layers, each seemingly separate and distinct, but all tied into a string of murders beginning here in Las Vegas nine years ago.

Both Nick and Warrick had shown up for shift early as requested, curious about the call, guessing that they were finally going to be privy to whatever Grissom and Catherine had been working. Gil had dropped revelation after revelation, until finally the pair had just sat in stunned silence. He had instructed them that the most important thing was to find a connection, any connection, between the murdered women. They knew what the connection was between the dead detectives, and how the killer had selected them. But why had he chosen the women he had raped and killed? How had he chosen them? The first step to finding him was to find the commonality between the dead women.

He left them with that task, then headed for the Trace lab, to see if the techs had been able to get anything substantive from the letter or the envelope. As he walked the halls, Gil recalled the phone call he had received earlier that day, from the FBI in Quantico. Seeking his opinion on CSI Level Two Sara Sidle who had applied for a job with them, and was currently in phase three of the interview process. Gil knew that if Sara had made it to phase three, she was doing outstanding. He had felt a flush of pride, mingled with a pang at the thought of losing her to the Feds.

Grissom still found it hard to accept that even after he had gone to Sara, and opened himself up to her that way, exposing his feelings, that she had rejected him. He had always believed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the connection between he and the lovely brunette was unbreakable, even if it could never come to fruition. That even though he hadn't been able to take that final step, that Sara would be there when and if he ever did. Waiting for him. Her resignation had been the catalyst for him to finally admit to himself that he cared about the young woman as more than a co-worker, that he cared for her as a woman. And he had finally put five decades of fear behind him, and taken the ultimate risk.

Yet somehow, Sara had slipped through his fingers, tauntingly. Ephemeral as he had finally dared to reach for her. She hadn't come to him, grateful for the knowledge of his feelings for her, holding him in an embrace, assuaging his final reservations. She had looked him straight in the face, knowing what he was offering, and this time it had been _Sara _who had decided that what was between them just wasn't enough, and couldn't or shouldn't be pursued.

Grissom had thought for a while, after taking the rumbling elevator down from her apartment, that perhaps Sara was only making him wait as a lesson. Payback for the times he had turned her away. For the duration that he had made _her _wait. It surprised him. He wouldn't have expected those kinds of games from Sara. But Gil could understand, nursing his bruised ego and battered heart, why she might want him to feel some of what she must have been feeling over the years. He would do his penance, and wait for Sara to make the next move.

Except that her next move had been to take a few days time that she had coming, and get on a plane to Quantico. And so, reluctantly, Gil had offered Sara's job to Paul Tennyson. And it was done.

Gil had felt oddly disembodied when he had taken the call for references. It had seemed that each glowing word of praise that he had uttered, had taken Sara that little bit farther away. But if this was what she truly wanted, he couldn't stand in her way. And so Gil had answered each question honestly, telling the agent on the other end of the line all of the wonderful things about Sara that he had never been able to share with her. And when the call had concluded, and he had hung up, Gil finally felt the true import of her loss.

"I was just going to page you, Boss," Hodges smiled, as Grissom entered the room. He had been working studiously on the results of the suction on that letter that had been addressed to Captain Brass. Hodges had been so busy, in fact, that he hadn't even stopped for a single break, although it was now past what would normally have been his dinner hour.

"You've got something off that letter?" Grissom asked, careful not to allow himself to get too hopeful.

"Yes. Say, that's interesting, that weird letter being addressed to Detective Brass and all. I mean, it _was_ talking about our Captain Brass, right?" Hodges said conversationally, trying to appear only casually interested.

"What did you find?" Gil asked shortly, ignoring the technician's question.

Hodges frowned. Considering how diligently he had been following up on what his initial tests had shown, he thought that the night shift supervisor was being less than appreciative.

"No prints. Nothing remarkable about the ink or the parchment. The paper is the same as that from other evidence on file, in the Martens case. There were, however, traces of a fine, white powder," Hodges began. "On the letter itself, not from the envelope."

"Cocaine?" Grissom queried.

Hodges shook his head. "Empiric formula is ten parts carbon, twelve parts hydrogen, four parts nitrogen, three parts oxygen. Molecular weight two three six point two." He gave a small smile. "I anticipated your needs, and pursued it further. It's a drug, ATC code J05A02."

ATC refered to the Anatomical Therapeutic Chemical Classification System, used by the World Health Organization to classify drugs. Each drug was divided into a different group, according to the organ or system on which they acted, and on their therapeutic and chemical characteristics. And there were five levels that comprised the total code. Grissom furrowed his brow for a moment. "J stands for anti-infectives for systemic use," he recalled. The other digits and letters would be used to classify the drug into its therapeutic main group, its pharmacalogical subgroup, and finally its chemical substance subgroup. "Good work, Hodges," he commended. With the ATC code, Gil could determine exactly what drug had somehow been transfered to the letter Brass had received. Information that may or may not help them in the investigation.

"I know how busy you are, working this new case," Hodges continued, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. "So I took the liberty of researching the drug." He was satisfied by the deferential way Grissom inclined his head. "It's called didanosine. Brand name Videx, buffered powder for oral solution."

Grissom was clearly surprised. "Videx is an antiviral drug, used in the management of HIV."

Hodges nodded. "It's a nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor, or NRTI. It helps keep HIV from reproducing and appears to slow down the destruction of the immune system. It's generally prescribed in conjunction with other anti-HIV drugs, with the aim that combination therapy can potentially block replication of the HIV virus in a person's blood."

"Videx is a pediatric powder," Gil mused. "So whoever wrote the letter had come into contact with the powder at some point. Possibly during administration to an HIV positive child?" Who could that mean? Someone involved in the production or distribution of the drug? A physician or nurse, or other health care professional attending a patient? A parent of an ill child?

"Actually," Hodges corrected, "while Videx powder is primarily used in pediatric patients, there _is_ a buffered powder for oral solution for adults. These traces I suctioned are not the pediatric variety. Videx for adults is commonly prescribed as chewable, dispensible buffered tablets for oral administration. But there _is_ a less commonly prescribed oral powder for use by adults. That's what was on the letter."

Hodges looked curiously at Grissom. "I know the letter had been opened before it arrived at the lab. That it was sent to Captain Brass' home. Is it possible the trace was picked up there...I mean...Captain Brass isn't HIV positive, is he?" Now _that_ would be a bombshell, Hodges knew.

"No!" Grissom asserted quickly. _At least, I'm pretty sure he isn't._ As much as he and the detective were friends though, Gil knew that there was a lot they didn't know about one another.

"Okay," Hodges said, raising his hands in supplication, "I was just asking. Being thorough. You know." He quickly changed the topic back to the drug itself, in an effort to ingratiate himself again. "There is no generic didanosine buffered powder for oral solution yet available, so we can say with certainty that what we have here _is _Videx. And it's only manufactured by Bristol-Myers Squibb, and only available by physician prescription."

"This is good work," Gil complimented sincerely. The technician had shown initiative, going beyond determing the base elements of the trace powder that had been found on the letter, and doing research on his own that would save the CSIs valuable time. "I know I can count on you to keep all of this just between us?"

Hodges smiled. He liked the sound of that. Being on the inside of an important case, with Grissom depending on his confidentiality. He was glad now that he hadn't had time to take a break, and hadn't shared any of these details. He was a team player, and as long as they wanted and needed his help, David was glad to give it. "Absolutely, Boss." Hodges sighed, crossing his arms and rubbing his chin. "You know, it's too bad you can't just subpoena every physician in Vegas to see who's being prescribed Videx."

"That would be a gross invasion of people's privacy," Grissom said reluctantly. They couldn't just demand to know the identities of every person in Clark County being treated for HIV on the off chance that one of them might be pivotal in their case. It was frustrating though, to know that Hodges was right...if they _could_ it might save them a lot of time and point them right in the direction of a murderer. But at least it was a potential lead, one possible step closer to the identity of their elusive killer. And when their investigations eventually gave them enough to narrow down a suspect, to perhaps get a warrant, this bit of information might become crucial. It might even be a factor now, dependent on Gil and his team to interpret it correctly.

Despite the fact that the lab technician's self-important smile was irksome to him, and that he found Hodges personally off-putting, Grissom knew that the man deserved kudos for the information he had compiled. "I'll remember this at review time, David," he promised.

"I'm just glad that I could be of assistance," Hodges said with false modesty, shrugging his shoulders. "You can buy me dinner one night," he joked, though the gleam in his eyes was nakedly hopeful.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass had received Grissom's call just after nine o'clock, as he'd been kicking off his shoes and sitting back on the sofa, settling in to spend part of the evening watching CNN. Hoping that being a voyeur to the problems faced by others elsewhere in the nation, elsewhere in the world, would help take his mind off of his own. Gil had informed him that Trace had recovered something from the letter, without going into details, and Brass had responded briskly that he would meet the scientist at the lab shortly.

The detective had arrived to find Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes in one of the computer labs, going through the boxes of files. Both men had looked at him wordlessly, the serious expressions on their faces...mingled with something that Brass tried not to think was pity...letting him know that they were working the case now as well. That was good, the more the merrier, five heads were better than three, and all that jazz. The cliches danced through his head. The truth was that they were both top notch CSIs, and he was glad to know they were contributing their unique talents.

Grissom was in his office, standing behind his desk, paging through a thick, hardcover volume. Catherine was walking the room in slow, unhurried steps, talking to Cecilia who sat in a chair to the left of Gil's desk. Brass heard Catherine saying something about the supermarket, and discerned that the blonde criminalist was conjecturing whether or not that might still have been the link between the women, even if Juneau had not been the killer.

Brass rapped on the opened door to announce his prescence, then strolled into the room. "So, did we get something interesting off the letter?" his deep voice asked hopefully. A print would be too much to hope for, especially one that had turned up in AFIS, their perp wouldn't be that careless. But maybe they had found the remnants of a rare pipe tobacco or scent from an unusual, imported cologne. Some kind of badly needed jumping off point.

Gil looked at him, blue eyes piercing behind gold, wire-rimmed glasses. "I have to ask this," Grissom began apologetically. "Before we pursue this as a lead." The supervisor looked uncomfortable. "You're not taking any kind of meds for...for HIV infection?"

Brass crossed his arms and raised a bushy brow, thinking the scientist must be joking. "Uh, no."

Grissom nodded. "There were traces of an anti-viral drug, didanosine, on the letter. It's prescribed to HIV patients." He held the detective's dark gaze. "Because the letter wasn't opened in a sterile environment, we can't make any assumptions, before we pursue this as a lead."

It hit Brass then that the criminalist's question had been serious. At first, he was angry that Grissom could think he would ever put any of his co-workers in that kind of situation, either the CSIs or fellow cops. That he wouldn't warn them of a health concern that could put them in danger. He wasn't mortified that they might think he could have AIDS, they all had enough education as part of their professions, to not attach any of the old societal stigmas to the disease. Almost anyone could get the HIV virus, from a number of different ways. He was no saint, there had been one night stands in his past, with women he'd only just met. And he'd had a blood transfusion, back in Jersey, after the shooting. Back in the days when they were just learning about the virus and how it was transmitted, before the country's blood supply underwent the rigorous testing that it did nowadays.

Brass wasn't upset that Grissom would think it possible he might have contracted the virus at some point in his life. But he was hurt that the other man might think he would keep that kind of a secret from the co-workers...from the friends...that he had almost daily contact with. Not allowing them the knowledge that could influence their own actions one day, and protect their own lives. He tried to understand though, that Gil had to ask. Had their situations been reversed, he would have, he knew.

Then Brass realized the possible ramifications of his response to the question, and his dark eyes sought Cecilia. There was only caring, and trust in the chocolate depths of her eyes. No concern. No worry. He could see that she did not believe he would ever have endangered her that way. And for a moment the gratitude for that trust coursed through him with heart-breaking poignancy. "No!" he said again more emphatically, his features twisting, wanting to give reassurance even though there was nothing to indicate she needed any.

"Okay," Gil continued. "Then at some point before the killer put the letter into the envelope, it came into contact with didanosine. Videx powder."

"Are you saying the guy is HIV positive?" Brass asked in wonder.

"I don't have any evidence to support that conclusion," Grissom cautioned. "There might be another explanation for why and how he was around trace amounts of Videx."

"So where do we go from here?" Catherine asked, one hand on a slim hip. She hadn't really thought that the didanosine contamination had come from Brass' residence, but she was relieved to know that it hadn't. She had been surprised...when Gil had first mentioned Hodges' findings, and informed her that they couldn't proceed until they'd ruled out whether or not it was _possible_ for the trace to have been transfered from Brass or his residence...that Cecilia had seemed to immediately reject that theory.

_She _would not have been quite so trusting, Catherine knew. Though she had been gladdened by Cecilia's surety, and the strength of her belief in Jim Brass. Catherine hadn't fully relaxed however, until she had heard from the detective himself that his health was not compromised, and that the Videx powder must have come from elsewhere.

"Al Robbins does some volunteer work at a free clinic, with HIV patients," Grissom informed them. Brass and Catherine shared a surprised look. Neither knew that this was something the coroner did on his own time. "I suggest we go talk to him, and see what more, if anything, he can tell us about the drug or its use, or how it might have ended up on the letter."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Sure, I guess I can take a break, and talk some things through with you," Doc Robbins said to Gil. He glanced at the corpse on the stainless steel table, covered to its waist with a blue sheet. The pale, white chest not yet carved into the familiar Y incision by his scalpel."This guy's not going anywhere." He looked sheepishly at Cecilia. "A little morgue humour."

The writer nodded her understanding. While it had been difficult to accept initially, she had come to learn that in some professions gallows humour was a coping mechanism for the men and women who had to deal routinely with often horrific, often grotesque events. That the only way they could do their jobs was to distance themselves, or risk drowning in their own compassion. Laughter was often one way to work through the tension, and not an indicator of irreverence.

The four of them followed the coroner to his office...Grissom, Brass, Catherine and Cecilia. Robbins seated himself at his desk and logged onto the computer. "So you found traces of didanoisine," he mused, his fingers hunting and pecking at the keyboard. "And you know that it's an NRTI, nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor, used in the fight against HIV. Didanosine may reduce the amount of HIV in the blood, and increase the number of CD4 cells...T cells...in the blood."

His intelligent blue eyes were vivid against his fair skin, and his silvered beard and greying hair. "It's estimated that there are almost one million people in the U.S. living with HIV, almost half of them dealing with full blown AIDS. AIDs has killed almost half a million Americans since it was first identified here in the early eighties. That would equal the number killed in _ten _Viet Nam wars." He looked at Gil. "How can I help you?"

"Who would be around trace amounds of Videx powder, the adult variety?" Grissom asked. "Someone involved in its manufacturing? Distibrution? A doctor or other health care provider? A patient?"

"Most likely, whoever was ingesting the drug," Doc Robbins said. He looked at his computer screen for a moment. "Videx buffered powder for oral solution is supplied in single dose packs, containing one hundred, one hundred sixty-seven, or two hundred milligrams of didanosine. It's taken orally. The patient would open a packet of the powder, and pour the contents into a glass with about four ounces of water. It would be stirred for a few minutes until completely dissolved. Once dissolved, it can be kept at room temperature, but must be used within four hours.

"It's not something that's difficult to use, that would require a demonstration first. It's also not the kind of thing that someone would prepare at work. I would say that it was probably prepared at home, by the patient, or a family member or caregiver who was assisting them. And likely microscopic amounts that spilled from the packet onto a counter or table, were then transfered to your letter."

"Since the powdered form isn't that common," Catherine wanted to know, "why would someone be prescribed that over the tablet form?"

"Probably patient preference," Al replied. "Maybe the person doesn't like pills. And it happens to be a drug that's offered in powdered form. HIV patients are prescribed a combination therapy of drugs, each with different properties, that can potentially block the replication of HIV in a person's blood. They include NRTIs, like Videx, protease inhibitors, such as Viread or Aptivus, and entry inhibitors such as Rescriptor. Some can be taken through subcutaneous injection under the skin, but most are in pill form. If someone is taking a regime of pills, once or twice a day, every day for the rest of their life, and they have or develop an aversion to them, Videx powder is an alternative."

"What are some of the possible side effects someone taking didanosine could experience?" Grissom asked.

"Less serious side effects might be stomache upset; gas, diarrhea, heartburn. Muscle and joint ache. Dry mouth or eyes. Headache." The coroner consulted the screen. "More unusual and potentially severe side effects could be unusual fatigue or weakness. Weight gain or loss, particularly in the face or at the waist. Unusual bleeding or bruising. Problems with vision. Unexplained rash. Fever. Any of those would be reason to contact a physician immediately.

"Particularly associated with Videx are peripheral neuropathy...a kind of nerve damage that shows up as tingling or burning pain in the hands and feet...and pancreatitis." Robbins looked at Cecilia and Brass, explaining further. "Pancreatitis is a pain in the stomache area that goes through to your back. If not caught soon enough, pancreatitis can be very serious. A physician will monitor blood enzymes called amylase and lipase which can provide early warning of pancreatitis. Someone taking Videx, should avoid alcohol, which can increase the risk.

"Another set of rare but serious side effects of nucleoside analog anti-HIV drugs is lactic acidosis and severe hepatomegaly with steatosis. In laymans terms, an enlarged fatty liver. Such a side effect likely results from mitochondrial toxicity. Mitochondria are the cell's power organs, supplying energy for normal cell growth. NRTIs impair mitochondrial function. Subsequently the patient could suffer from an enlarged fatty liver, caused by increased acid levels in the blood. That would then be evidenced by nausea, shortness of breath and vomiting.

"And of course, didanosine can interact with other drugs. There are specific instructions for using it with other drugs, one hour before some, two hours after hours, co-ordinating it not only with eating, but with the other anti-HIV drugs the patient is taking as well." Robbins sighed. "They're all powerful drugs with potentially serious side effects, but then it's better than the alternative of AIDS."

"I'd imagine all those drugs could be fairly pricey. So if someone is under the care of a physician, and taking these drugs, that would indicate that they're fairly well off, with some kind of private health care coverage?" Brass made the supposition.

Robbins shook his head. "Not necessarily. AIDS medication is very expensive. But if a person lacks private health insurance, there are other options," he explained. "Medicare or Medicaid. They do have limitations though, and different eligibility criteria. There is also ADAP, the AIDS Drug Assistance Program, that enables some people with HIV to purchase scripts.

"Through a combination of state and federal funding, ADAP provides drugs to about thrity percent of the Americans who are currently on AIDS medications. ADAP does help a great number of people who have no other recourse. But there is a waiting list." Dr. Robbins grew sombre. "Not many people realize that there are Americans dying because of a lack of access to AIDS medications. Because drugs are lengthening the potential lifespan of an HIV infected individual, the waiting list continues to grow, as new cases are diagnosed. It's not only people in the poorest parts of Africa who are dying because of a lack of access to AIDS drugs, but people right in our own backyards too.

"I could off on a political tangent here," the coroner sighed bleakly, "about what the current government and former administrations are or aren't doing, but I'll spare you that. Suffice it to say that this is an issue close to my heart."

"That's why you volunteer at the clinic," Catherine said with admiration.

"Because HIV is primarily a sexually transmitted disease, there is a faction that sees this as a moral issue. But the bottom line is that it's a medical problem. While it still primarily affects gay men, we're seeing an increase in the instances of infection in minorities, and in women. With a disproportionate rise in the number of African American women being affected. Poverty seems to be a dominating factor.

"It's estimated that one quarter of African Americans are living below poverty level. Poverty indicates increased vulnerability to HIV. Individuals are more likely to experience discrimination, illiteracy, addiction and sexual exploitation. Many of the people we see at the clinic fit this demographic group.

"I believe that Americans, including our young people, need to have easy access to condoms, cheaply and without moral judgement. The same goes for clean needles for drug users. I know there is some controversy in that especially, but I am convinced that first and foremost we need to keep people alive, to help protect them and those they come into contact with. And once we've done our best to ensure that, then we can work on helping them beat their addiction and getting them clean.

"At the clinic we help people cope with the fact that they are HIV positive. We give them factual information and assist them in understanding about the nature of HIV and AIDS. We do everything to help ensure that they take control of making sure the infection is not being passed on to others, by explaining the various ways that could occur and how to safeguard against that. We give them to tools and in some cases the desire to fight the disease and to live full, healthy lives. We help them gain access to health care and the medicines they need. We empower them to fight discrimination, if that occurs. We even discuss ways that they can have an active, safe sex life if they wish to, with an informed, consenting partner.

"Look," the coroner said with an apologetic smile, "I know you didn't come down here to listen to me pontificate."

"I think it's great, Doc, what you're doing," Catherine told him fondly.

Robbins smiled appreciatively. Then his vivid blue eyes took on a distant look. "I had a favourite uncle growing up, my mother's brother, Uncle Jack. The bachelor uncle. I was in college, when he was diagnosed with AIDS. He lost his job, he was a teacher. I watched lifelong friends and even family, turn their backs on him. Shunning him. There were even self-righteous whispers that the disease was a plague sent by God against the sinners. He had a partner. No one even knew, even though they'd been together for fifteen years. Uncle Jack never felt he could share that part of his life. When he was in the hospital, at the end, my grandfather, who was making the medical decisions, wouldn't even allow Ken to visit.

"I watched my uncle die, ravaged as much by the hostile attitudes of society, as by the inexorable march of the disease. I was too young, too scared to stand up to my family, too lacking in knowledge about the disease, to do anything more than visit from time to time and hold his hand," Al reminisced. "But I made it a point to learn everything I could over the years since he died. And I try to do for people now, what I wasn't able to do for Uncle Jack back then."

Cecilia felt her eyes mist with emotion. How many people were there like Dr. Robbins, people privately driven to give back, to help those who needed them, who went about working for causes they believed in, without any fanfare? She felt humbled by his revelation.

"Well," the coroner said awkwardly, "that's more than you ever wanted to know, I'm sure. Anyhow, is there anything more you want me to tell you about didanosine, or about someone who might be taking it?"

Brass looked at him consideringly. "I guess there's no legal way to determine who in or around Vegas might currently be taking Videx."

Robbins shook his head. "Sorry, detective. Information like that is confidential. And rightly so."

Brass nodded his understanding. So they might have another piece of the puzzle, but it wasn't a corner or an outside edge they could build with. It was an inside piece, nothing on its own, likely worthless unless it had other pieces to link to. The killer they sought might be HIV positive, or might simply have recently been in the home of someone who was. In addition to other information about a potential suspect, that might be meaningful. It might have given him some direction. But on its own, with no way to track the didanosine any further, it was evidence without context.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

After the visit to the morgue and the discussion with Doc Robbins, as Brass was preparing to head home again, Gil told Catherine and Cecilia to go ahead, and that he would meet them back at his office. "There's something I think we have to consider," he said slowly to the detective.

"What's that, Gil?" Brass asked.

"Right now, _you_ are our only link to the killer. If he stays true to his MO, now that you've received that letter, then eventually he's going to come after you. I think maybe we should have men guarding you round the clock. For your safety, as much as for the sake of the investigation." Grissom waited expectantly. "And when he makes a move, we've got him."

Brass gave a hollow grin. "You know, I considered that. Not because I want a babysitter. But because in theory, you're right. That's what I'd do. Put a couple of men on the next target. But I rejected the idea. You wanna know why?" He didn't wait for Gil to ask. "Because this guy is too smart for that. Odds are, he's been watching me, probably way before I even began to suspect he existed. Maybe even before he drove that SUV into Denny Martens.

"And he's going to notice, if suddenly there are cops on my ass twenty-four seven. And he's likely to get spooked. To forgo the game. He's not going to walk into a trap. He might decide to drop me as a target altogether. Move onto someone else. Move away from Vegas altogether. He might just decide that three detectives are trophy enough, and it's not worth the risk or the aggravation to get the last one.

"And then he might just go back to killing innocent women. Following whatever criteria he's using to select them, that so far completely eludes us. Maybe he'll go back to California. Or Illinois. Or maybe he'll decide that Nebraska is nice this time of year, or that he's always wanted to see Maine. And then he'll just disappear into the wind again.

"Any chance we have of catching him, of keeping him here and focused on me, instead of on someone's mother, or sister, or wife, will be gone. We make me look impossible to get at, and he might decide not to bother. And we might never get this close to him again." Brass stared resignedly at the scientist. "Either we get some break in identifying him before he makes a move on me...and right now that's not looking so promising...or we hope that he does strike, and that when he does, I can get him first."

"He's killed three career detectives, Jim, and there's still nothing to prove that those deaths weren't accidents, no matter what we know. He didn't make a single mistake. Three cops. And they never even saw him coming. And we're supposed to use you to draw him out?" Grissom asked quietly. "Human bait?"

"I've got an advantage they didn't have. I know he's coming and that he means business. Look, I'm no altruistic martyr. The thought of being one of Doc Robbins' stiffs in the near future kind of messes with my beauty sleep, truth be told. But do you honestly think we have any other choice?" Brass queried wearily. He left Gil standing there; the other man's silence answer enough.


	41. Chapter 41

"I might have something here," Catherine said carefully, looking up from one of the old files from the Las Vegas murders of nine years ago. She held the place on the page with her finger, as Brass and Warrick looked back at her expectantly.

Grissom, Nick and Cecilia had gone home shortly beforehand, once the sun had heralded the start of a new day. Grissom and Nick were going to get a few hours of sleep and then return to the lab. Cecilia had gone home to rest, and then had a luncheon date with Janice Kellerman, the mayor's wife. Brass had returned to the lab not long after the three had departed, to find Catherine and Warrick still at work.

"A very loose connection between the second vic, Marilyn Hegel and the third vic, Beth Marchison. It seems that they both used the same bank, Wells Fargo. Different branches, Hegel had an account at the one located at the Sunrise Centre Mall, and Marchison at the Las Vegas Tower. But there's a record of ATM transactions on Marchison's account, that were done at the Sunrise branch." Catherine tilted her head. "At one time in the past, both women did some banking at the same location."

Brass frowned. "Yeah, I remember now. That was a lead that Martens and Takei were working. It seems to me that the first vic, Jada Miller, didn't have an account with Wells Fargo, or any other bank, so there was no way to tie her in with the other women that way. And a lot of people bank with Wells Fargo. Then the whole thing with Juneau broke open, so it never really got pursued."

Warrick had Jada Miller's file, and he glanced down at it. "Hooking is mostly a cash business, so I guess she didn't have much need to deposit cheques or anything," he commented. "She was living at the Jade Garden, a cheap motel off strip, so she probably just paid cash weekly. She might have had to go to a bank to buy a roll of quarters for the washing machine on laundry day though," he speculated.

Though outwardly he was as cool and collected as he ever was, internally, Warrick was still reeling from everything that Grissom had told he and Nick the night before. Learning that a solved case from nine years prior had not only been attributed to the wrong perpetrator, but that the killer had gone on to kill again, in other states, had been gut-wrenching. The fact that the same killer was responsible for what had appeared to be the recent accidental deaths of three police detectives, all LVPD at one point in the past, had been enervating.

But hearing that the killer was apparently focused on a new victim, and had communicated his interest in an ominous letter, and that that target was Jim Brass, had stunned the criminalist. There had been a time in their past when he and Brass had been almost enemies, the animosity between them open and acknowledged. Back when the detective had been with the CSI unit. They had clashed from the get go. But in the years since then, with time and distance, had come understanding. Both men had changed, not only in their attitudes towards one another, but in their outlooks on life, and in the way they conducted themselves both professionally and personally.

Holly Gribbs' murder had been, Warrick had believed guiltily for a long time afterwards, the result of the culmination of the bad feelings between he and Brass. She had been caught innocently in the middle, an unwitting pawn in a power struggle that preceded her arrival at the lab. Brass had paired her up with Warrick not so that she could learn from his tutelage, or as a recognition of Warrick's worth as a CSI, but as a punishment.

And he had set himself up for being on the receiving end of Brass' wrath, by going behind his superior's back to get a warrant from a former judge. And his resentment of Brass and that situation, had trickled over to Gribbs, making him more cavalier about his responsibility towards her. Not to mention, if he hadn't owed a favour to the judge who had granted him the warrant in another case, Warrick would never have had to leave Holly alone to go place the bet.

It had been a vicious circle of blame. If Brass hadn't hated him so much, and been so unreasonable, letting his personal feelings for the CSI cloud his judgement, he would have called the judge to get the warrant himself. If Warrick hadn't been so insubordinate so often in the past, Brass might have been more inclined to facilitate his request. Back and back it went, their history troubled.

But after Holly Gribbs had been killed, and both men had had to deal with their ultimate culpability in the series of events that had lead up to the rookie CSI's death, the anger that they had previously borne for one another, had been internalized. And working in separate units, with Brass at homicide, it was as though each began to notice facets of the other that they had failed to note when they had worked together in the same building.

And gradually, there had come first a grudging professional respect, and finally, a personal respect. And now, though the irony would hit Warrick every now and then, a genuine affection. And knowing that Brass was the target of a devious serial killer, convoluted the criminalist's gut into a twisted, knotted mess. He felt the pressure and the desperation of their race against the clock, as he had never felt the weight of a case before in his career.

"Miller didn't have a vehicle and I can't see her hopping a bus and going to the Sunrise Centre Mall just to get some change," Brass commented. "Lots of banks between there and where she was living and working. Still," he said thoughtfully, "you never know. And it is a definite connection between the other two vics. It gives us someplace to start looking."

"It doesn't look as though the dates and times of their transactions coincide," Catherine continued. "It appears that they were never doing business at the branch on the same day or time. Hegel went pretty regularly, every other Friday morning. Her grocery store paycheques were direct deposited after midnight, every two weeks. According to these records, she'd go to the branch, pay some bills, and withdraw some cash. Always through a teller it looks like." She switched to Marchison's file. "Her transactions were always at the ATM. More random and sporadic. Different days and times. Mostly cash withdrawals."

"I think this calls for a little trip to the mall," Brass suggested.

"You want to drive, or should I?" Catherine grinned.

Brass frowned. "We'll take separate vehicles," he insisted. "I may want to head out someplace on my own from there."

"Oh sure, you guys get to go outside and enjoy the sunshine, while you leave me here by myself in the flourescent glare, buried in reams of paper," Warrick said with mock chagrin.

"Don't pout," Catherine advised. "If there's a Jack-in-the-Box there, we'll bring you back a burger."

"Oh man," Warrick groaned. "I used to think you liked me, Cat." He was shaking his head self-pityingly as she and Brass left.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

The Sunrise Centre Mall was anchored on both ends by two of the larger department store chains, Sears and JC Penney. Comprised of two levels and sixty stores and services in all, it offered indoor, air-conditioned shopping for residents and visitors. The Wells Fargo bank was located at one of the smaller, side entrances to the mall, on the right hand side. There was a direct entrance to the branch, as well as another through the mall itself. To the left of the entrance, also with direct access from outside, was a dental office.

Brass and Catherine parked in the adjacent lot. The mall had only just opened, and there were fewer cars in this area. Brass sat in his sedan for a moment, observing the mall building and the entrance. While on the other side of the mall there was a second level, there was only a ground level on this rear portion. While he watched, an older man, and then a young woman with a toddler in a stroller, enter the mall. At one time, two of the victims of the Holiday Murders, had passed through those same glass doors. Had the third ever been here at one time? Is this where the killer had first seen and selected his victims? The possibility was intriguing.

There was a sharp rap on the window to his left, and Brass turned his head to the smiling visage of the lovely criminalist. When Catherine had suggested they drive to the mall together, the detective had felt an immediate surge of fear. Together with him, in the confines of a vehicle, Catherine might become a potential victim if the killer made his move at that time. The idea of something happening to her had made the adrenaline rush through his body. None of those he cared about seemed to realize what a danger he could be to them, now that the killer had surfaced, making his intentions known. Detective Jim Brass was slated to be his next victim.

How and when that move might come, was a totally unknown entity. None of the other detectives had died in the same fashion. Joe Takei and Elliott Keeth had been killed in their own homes, but Denny Martens had been followed in public, run down in a quiet street while just going about his day's business. There was no way to even make a guess as to when or where the killer might perceive Jim to be the most vulnerable, or what method he might consider fitting to end the detective's life. And just because so far there had been no innocent bystanders caught up in the web, didn't mean that it wasn't something for Jim to consider, painfully, each time he was in close proximity to other people.

Stepping out of the vehicle, Brass engaged the alarm. If anyone tried to tinker with the car in his abscence, he would be alerted to the fact.

Catherine smiled to herself as Brass held open the heavy, glass door. Little courtesies such as this were becoming few and far between in the general male populace, she had found. She walked into the mall, looking first at the Wells Fargo bank, and then up and down the corridor at the other businesses in the immediate vicinity.

On the right hand side, next to the bank, was a CVC pharmacy. Beyond that was a small Laura Secord. On the other side of the candy shop, and on the corner between the side entrance and the main stream of mall traffic, was a jewelry store. Not one of the chains, but an independent. Van Horne's.

On the other side of the aisle, closest to the doors, was the dental office of Adams and Froude. Next to that, was a pet store, Fins and Fur. Beyond it was a gift boutique, Site O' The Green, that featured shamrocks etched into the glass display windows. And on the corner, was a lingerie store, Lacy's Closet. For a moment, something niggled at the back of Catherine's brain, and then was gone again.

In the centre of the corridor was a small seating arrangement, a bank of metal chairs to seat four, set back to back with another grouping. There were waste receptacles on either side, and live palmettos in glazed, cobalt blue planters. There was a small skylight set in the ceiling high overhead. The seats were currently vacant.

She stood for a moment, imagining the victims standing in this same spot. It was quieter down this corridor than in the centre of the mall, with less foot traffic. Catherine glanced out into the parking lot. Imagining someone waiting in an idling car, for an unsupecting bank customer to step outside. Or perhaps standing near the exterior door, casually smoking a cigarette, before trailing the victim back to her parked vehicle. Depending on the time of day, there probably wouldn't be a lot of witnesses in this area of the mall.

"Kind of a quiet little corner," Brass mused, mirroring her thoughts.

He had noted that there was no access to the ATM machine from the outside of the building, probably for security reasons. Customers had to enter the mall to use them, though they didn't have to go into the bank itself. There were two ATMs set into a narrow, black marble wall between Wells Fargo and the CVC pharmacy.

"We'll have to contact mall management," Brass was saying, "to see if these other businesses were all here nine years ago or not. There might have been changes, like places going belly up, or moving to new locations."

Catherine nodded her agreement. "I guess the place to start though is the bank itself."

They went into the bank, and approached an attractive, young brunette at a customer care desk. A gold-plated name tag identified her as Kris. Brass gave her an easy smile. "Hi Kris, I'm Detective Jim Brass, LVPD, and this is Catherine Willows, Forensics. I was wondering if the manager was in today and what his...or her...name might be."

The young woman looked at them curiously, wondering what the police were doing here. There hadn't been any incidents at the bank, that she was aware of. No hold ups or attempts. Perhaps there was an internal problem of some kind. "That would be Mr. Gracie," she replied. "He's in a meeting right now. Did you need me to interrupt him?" Her grey eyes were bright.

"No, no, that's okay," Brass answered. "But I would appreciate a few moments of his time, when he's available."

"Just a moment," Kris responded. She picked up the receiver of the phone on her desk. "Elaine? There are two police officers here to see Mr. Gracie when he's available." Neither Jim nor Catherine corrected the inaccuracy. There was a pause, then she looked up at Brass. "He should be free by eleven, is that all right?" Jim nodded, glancing at his watch. That was in about forty minutes. "Thanks, Elaine," the young woman confirmed, then hung up.

"Thank you, Kris," Brass smiled, then he and Catherine exited the bank.

"So what do we do for half an hour?" Catherine queried. "Take a stroll around the mall?"

"Exactly," Jim replied.

"Of the other shops along here," Catherine remarked, "it seems most likely to me that the one all three women might have used, if we go on the assumption that Jada Miller was here at some point too, would be the pharmacy. Filling prescriptions. Picking up health and beauty aids. If you run in to do your banking, I could see making a quick stop at the CVC."

"Not the candy shop?" Jim teased lightly. "I thought all women were crazy about chocolate."

Catherine chuckled. "Yeah, all the ones I know," she agreed. "But an Almond Joy from the pharmacy is a lot cheaper than Laura Secord, if someone gets a craving. Plus you can pick up your shampoo or some Kleenex, or whatever."

They continued to walk down the corridor, and out into the main area of the mall. To their left, in the direction of the JC Penney, was a food court. A semi-circle of fast food kiosks ringed a collection of tables and chairs. There was a small fountain in the centre of this area, a large concrete structure with vines, and nymphs frolicking beneath a waterfall. The older gentleman who had entered the mall ahead of them, was seated at one of the tables, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup, and reading a newspaper. A dozen other patrons, singly or in pairs, half of them teens enjoying their summer break, sat at other tables. It was still early, and a weekday, so the area was not very busy yet.

Behind the tables, was a staircase which ascended to the second level and the shops and services located there. Brass and Catherine sauntered through the food court, taking note of the offerings. There were the usual franchises one would find at similar malls all across the nation. A&W. Orange Julius. New York Fries. KFC. Second Cup. There was Japanese, and Greek and Indian food available.

They left the food court, strolling casually to the other end of the mall, to the entrance to the Sears store. They took the stairs to the second level, and came back that way before descending the stairs to the food court once more. From a certain section of the eating area, someone could look towards the corridor where the Wells Fargo bank was located. "You want a coffee?" Jim asked the criminalist.

After purchasing two coffees, and a danish for Catherine, Jim selected a table on the furthest side from the fountain, that overlooked the side corridor. He had a clear view of both the lingerie shop and the jewelry store, and a partial view of the Laura Secord place. Looking upwards towards the second level, he counted eight other businesses, four on each side, that he could see from his seat.

There were another four stores facing the food court, between Lacy's Closet and the JC Penney. A Banana Republic clothing store. An electronics store. A health food store. And a Reeboks. "Let's say the women originally came to the mall to use the bank," Brass conjectured, "and then maybe they came to the food court for a drink, or a bite to eat. A mall employee or customer also taking a break, might have seen them. Since we know Hegel and Marchison were here at different times, and on different dates, I'd be more inclined to think employee. There are more than a dozen stores that I have a clear view of from here," he noted. "So that means they have a clear view of us, too."

"But anyone working at any of the shops or businesses here, could come to the food court on their break. Or before or after work," Catherine mused. "If Hegel and Marchison _were_ both noticed here by the killer, it could mean that it was someone working at the mall at that time." She shook her head as she realized how difficult it would be to track down everyone who had worked at the Sunrise Centre nine years ago. Even if every business had a complete employee list, and assuming none of the businesses were new to the mall, or that old ones had left once their leases expired, the task of trying to track those employees down was overwhelming. "Even if we had someone, or two someones, working on that around the clock, it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And before we could even think of allocating those kinds of resources, we'd have to have something to tie Miller to the bank, or the mall, as well. And so far, we don't have anything."

"The bank is the only connection between two of the victims," Brass stated. "We haven't got anything else, nowhere else to put the effort into," he reminded the blonde quietly. He noticed that she was staring into the distance, towards the corridor where the Wells Fargo branch was, seeming not to have heard him. "Cath?"

It was another moment or two before the criminalist shifted her gaze. She looked speculatively at the detective, her blue eyes bright. "I can't remember for sure, but I think we might have our link for Jada Miller." She took out her cell phone and hit one of the speed dial numbers.

"Warrick," came the deep timbre of the melifluous voice on the other end.

"Hey, Warrick, I need you to do me a favour," Catherine asked sweetly. "You still at the lab?"

"Somebody has to hold down the fort," he joked.

"Can you get Jada Miller's file?" she requested.

"Yeah, no problem." There was a short wait, while the CSI located the murdered prostitute's file. "What can I do for you?" Warrick wanted to know.

"The report that detailed what the vic was wearing at the time of the attack," Catherine began, "can you find that?"

Warrick shuffled through the reports. "Got it."

"I remember the killer's letter mentioned that she wasn't wearing a bra," the blonde said, furrowing her brow in recollection. "And that was confirmed. At least, one was never found. But there was a pair of torn, pink panties near the body, is that right?"

"Yeah," Warrick confirmed. "Pink, polyester, size small." He looked at the crime scene photo. "Thong style. A DNA match done on vaginal secretions affirmed that they belonged to the vic."

"Does it say anything else?" Catherine asked. "A brand name?" she prompted.

"Uh, let's see," the voice on the other end paused. "LC Girl. That important somehow?" he wanted to know.

"Could be. I'll talk to you later. Thanks, Warrick." Catherine set the phone on the table.

"What's all this about Jada Miller's underthings?" Brass queried.

"The panties she was wearing," Catherine said excitedly, "LC Girl brand. I thought I'd read that, just one of those weird things that sticks in your head, though I didn't make the connection right away. Those are sold exclusively at Lacy's Closet." Brass looked at the shop on the corner, and raised a bushy brow. "It's the poor woman's Victoria's Secret," she explained. "And they only have two locations in Vegas. That I know of, that is, we'd have to confirm. One is right over there. The other is in Henderson.

"Miller was living and working downtown, she was new to Vegas and didn't have any friends here, I can't see her going all the way out to Henderson for undergarments. But she could have come _here_. And once here, she could have stopped at the bank for something, even though she didn't have an account there. Something that there wouldn't have been a recorded transaction for."

"Such as buying a roll of quarters," Brass said consideringly. "For laundry. Just like Rick said." He raised his cup of coffee to the blonde in a salute. "Good catch, Cath. You guys are gonna make me obsolete."

"Let's go ask how many of their stores are located in Vegas," Catherine suggested.

Lacy's Closet was staffed at this time of day by a lone sales clerk, a voluptuous, barely dressed blonde, with short, spiked hair. There was rock music coming from the sound system, and the decor was what Brass thought of immediately as whorehouse meets Victorian parlour. There was scarlet carpeting underfoot, a couple of overstuffed, antique style boudoir chairs for customers, lamps with silk shades, tassles and feathers, and paintings of scantily clad, nubile women in heels. The salesgirl greeted Brass and Catherine warmly, letting them know that there was a thirty percent off sale on teddies.

"She's not talking stuffed bears either," Catherine whispered to Brass with a wink.

"For that price, you'd better stock up," he returned softly. "If you need a man's opinion before you buy, I'd be willing to let you model some for me."

"Yeah, I just bet you would," Catherine laughed. She went to a rack of camisoles, and reached for one, checking for the LC Girl label. Then she said to the sales clerk, "I'm not really looking to buy today, thanks. I just have a quick question. Other than this location and the one out in Henderson, do you have any more outlets in Las Vegas?"

The young woman shook her head. "No, just the two. Though Collette, she's my boss, did mention that they were hoping to open another one late next year, closer to downtown. They're just trying to get a lease. I'm hoping to get a promotion to manager maybe, by then." She smiled.

"Good luck," Catherine commented. "Do you know how long this store has been at this location?"

"I grew up around here, I used to come to the mall with my mom when I was a kid, when it was first built about fifteen years ago. The store was here then, I remember. My mom used to grab my hand and hurry me past it," the young blonde laughed. "I don't think she's quite gotten over the fact that I work here."

"Thanks," Catherine said.

"Nothing else I can do for you?" the other woman pressed. "We've got some new massage oils in, some really lovely scents."

"That's okay thanks," Catherine replied. The sales clerk nodded and moved to the rear of the store to work on a display. Catherine's lips curled devilishly as she held up a purple thong, "Unless you needed something new to wear, Jim?"

"No, I'm good," he replied wryly. "And anyways, I'd need a _heck_ of a lot more fabric than that," he announced matter-of-factly. He was rewarded by the quick shifting of her sapphire eyes and her faint blush as she returned the merchandise to its rack. Jim laughed. It was rare to see Catherine Willows discomfitted. He checked his watch. "It's about time we go see Mr. Gracie."

The bank manager invited them into his office, shaking their hands with a firm, no nonsense grip. Mr. Gracie was a tall, distinguished, dark-haired man, just beginning to silver at the temples, who reminded Catherine of the late Cary Grant. His shoulders were broad beneath the expensive cut of his custom suit. Before she was even conscious of her actions, her eyes dipped to the ring finger of his left hand. A thick, gold band circled there, she noticed with fleeting disappointment. "How can I help you?" he inquired with an inquisitive smile.

"How long have you been the manager at this location?" Brass asked, taking the lead for questioning, while Catherine sat quietly in the chair to his right, observing.

"Three years," Mr. Gracie replied.

"Where did you work before that?" the detective wanted to know.

"Actually, I worked here," the bank manager responded. "I was the mortgage manager for four years."

"And before that?" Brass continued.

"May I ask why you want to know, Detective?" the other man queried. He looked from Brass to Catherine, then back at the detective again. There was no resentment in the question, just curiosity. "Am I under investigation for something?" There was no guilt either in his tone or his body language.

"We're investigating a murder from several years ago," Brass told him. "Two women, both of whom were customers at Wells Fargo."

Mr. Gracie looked puzzled. "Before coming to this branch, I was at the Tower. Four years. Commercial accounts. I'm not sure how any of this helps you though."

"So you weren't at this location nine years ago?" the detective wanted to confirm.

"No, I wasn't." Gracie said amiably, sitting back a bit in his chair, deciding that the other man wasn't going to satisfy his curiosity just yet.

"I wonder if I could get a list of all employees who _were _working here nine years ago. Current and former," Brass requested.

"That should be easy enough to do," Gracie agreed. "I can contact human resources at our district office."

"I'd appreciate that," Brass thanked.

"I'll do it today, and should have the information later this afternoon or tomorrow morning," Gracie said. "These murders...I haven't heard anything on the news. The fact that they were customers of our bank, is that going to be reported in the media any time soon? Is there any need to bring Wells Fargo into things, as far as the public is concerned? I wouldn't want to alarm our current customers, over something that happened several years ago," he remarked. "Or to have them think there is any danger in doing business with us."

_Spoken like a good Company Man, _Brass thought. "No, there's been no media involvement so far," he said. "And if and when that time came, there would be no need to reveal the bank's connection."

"Good," Gracie smiled.

Brass smiled back. "Likewise, I would prefer to have any queries we make, kept as low key as possible."

"Certainly," the bank manager replied.

Brass stood up, reaching into an inside jacket pocket, and extracting one of his business cards. "If you could fax, or email that information to my office, when you have it, I'd appreciate it," he stated, as he handed it to Gracie. "And thank you for your time."

"Anything I can do to help," the banker agreed rising. "Detective Brass. Ms. Willows." He nodded to Catherine.

Outside the bank, Brass looked at Catherine, his features pensive. "Before he came to the Sunrise Centre, Mr. Gracie was at the Las Vegas Tower branch."

"The same branch where Beth Marchison had her account," Catherine said thoughtfully. "Interesting. I wonder if he's been out of state in the last several years. On business trips or vacation." She sighed. "But that would be too easy. Besides he doesn't seem like a killer."

Brass shrugged. "How many times do they, really? Look at Paul Milander. Who would have thought such a self-effacing guy capable of committing multiple murders? Who would have guessed the secrets he was hiding?"

"I know," Catherine agreed. "And we don't even know for sure whether or not the bank is the key to all of this. We know both Hegel and Marchison were there at some point. And we can guess that Miller likely was at the mall, to shop for lingerie at Lacy's Closet. And then could have used the bank." Catherine looked up the corridor at the store. She tilted her head consideringly for a moment. "Brass, what if we're right, and the mall is the epicentre. But what if it's not the bank that was the commonality for all three. What if...just maybe...it was the lingerie store?"

Brass followed her gaze. "It's worth looking into. I'll have to see if I can find out if Hegel and Marchison ever bought their undergarments there."

Catherine was distracted by a squeal of pleasure. Across the aisle, at the pet store, a young girl was beaming, as a small, beige puppy that she held wriggling in her arms, licked enthusiastically at her face. Her father was smiling at her indulgently, while the female shopgirl had a knowing look on her face. "Lindsey has been asking for a puppy for the longest while," the criminalist mentioned to the detective, as she walked closer to the pet shop.

There was a small, octagonal pen at the front of the store, and within the wire confines now scampered three tiny balls of fluff. The pups hadn't been there when they had first come into the mall, probably still in the back in cages. Catherine felt herself inexorably drawn to the small, rambunctious forms. There wasn't much in the world cuter than a puppy, she thought. The sign indicated that they were Yorkie-poo crosses, vet checked and first shots, for two hundred and ninety-nine dollars. "Lindsey would love one for her birthday next month," the blonde sighed. "But they're just so much work, and my schedule is so bizarre. Maybe in a couple of years she'll be old enough to take more responsibility, and we could make it work."

"You shouldn't get a dog from a pet store," Brass cautioned, his voice low. "You don't know anything about them, their breeding, and a lot of the time they come from puppy mills."

"I know," Catherine agreed. "But look how adorable they are."

The child, who was a couple of years younger than Lindsey, was pleading, "Oh Daddy, I want this one! Pleeeease!"

"I prefer a bigger dog myself," Jim remarked as they headed out to the lot. "A German Shepherd."

"A police dog," Catherine chuckled. "Go figure."

Jim became introverted as he remembered an earlier discussion about dogs with Cecilia. The writer had indicated that she had always wanted a dog, and that she thought German Shepherds were beautiful. That had led to Jim's disclosure that he had had one growing up, a black and tan named King. He had extolled King's virtues, from his fierce loyalty, to his gentle nature, to his intelligence. Cecilia had lamented the fact that she had never had a dog, but said that one day she would. Now that her career as a writer was taking off, and her schedule was more her own, she thought that she might have the time for a dog at this point in her life.

Jim hadn't said anything to her at the time, but snuggling there with her on his sofa, listening to her talk, he had allowed himself to imagine a future with Cecilia. One that included a small house with a fenced yard, and a German Shepherd to keep her company and protect her, when he was at work. Thinking of Cecilia now, missing her, was like a physical blow.

Catherine noticed the sudden change in his demeanour, the slump of the detective's shoulders, and the sadness that clouded his dark eyes. "Is everything okay?" she asked tentatively, pausing before making her way to the Denali.

"Yeah," Brass answered, forcing a smile. Concentrating again on the case at hand, he looked back at the mall entrance, imagining Jada Miller heading through the glass doors, on her way to buy lingerie. He looked beyond the parking lot to the street that ran behind the back of the mall. There was a pole there, marked with the colours of the city transit system. One of the routes stopped here at this entrance to the mall.

Miller didn't have a vehicle of her own, and no friends to drive her around the city. Taxis were expensive, and Brass couldn't see her shelling out her hard earned cash to take a cab around town. Hitchhiking was always an option for a shapely young woman, and no more risky than hooking. And of course, there was also the bus. "I wonder what route that stop is on," the detective remarked, nodding with his head to indicate the boulevard beyond the parking lot. "I wonder if it goes downtown, anywhere near the Jade Garden Motel."

Catherine pursed her lips. "I could get the stop number off the post, and make a call, or check the transit website," Catherine offered. Until they received the employee list from Gracie, there wouldn't be anything more to do to follow up this angle of the investigation.

"You must be about ready for bed," Brass commented.

"I've got my second wind," she remarked. "I'll see what I can find out about the bus route, then I'll go home and grab some sleep."

"Okay, thanks," the detective said. "I'm going to get in touch with Marilyn Hegel's husband and find out if she ever shopped at Lacy's Closet. Page me when you get back in to work tonight, and I'll meet you at the lab, and we can compare notes." Brass felt re-energized. Catherine's rediscovery of the Wells Fargo connection between Hegel and Marchison might actually lead somewhere. At least now there was something for him to follow up on, however remote a connection there might be to the case.

And anything was preferable to sitting around, waiting for the killer to make his next move.


	42. Chapter 42

Brass parked at the curb, and sat for a moment, observing the one-storey stucco home with the requisite red tile roof. Marilyn Hegel's husband and two children were living here now, in the suburb-like neighbourhood of Summerlin. He had pulled the address from Sean Hegel's driver's licence on file with the DMV.

Summerlin was not that far from downtown, though it had none of the feel of the congestion and fast pace. It was a quiet oasis, in the midst of all of the city's conveniences, just north of the Summerlin Parkway. It was a better neighbourhood than the family had lived in previously, though theirs was one of the smaller homes on the block, and Brass wondered if there had been some insurance money. The supermarket where the cashier had worked was unionized, so there likely had been a benefits package, and a life insurance policy.

There were no vehicles parked in the concrete driveway, so Brass wasn't even sure if anyone was home. The car could be in the double car garage. Perhaps the family actually used the attached garage for its original purpose, not to store the overflow of consumerism like so many did. The place was neat, and well cared for, and a small front garden between the arched entryway and the garage, boasted a welcoming profusion of colourful flowers. The manicured lawn was emerald coloured, despite the recent heat wave. Someone had spent considerable time making sure it was well watered.

They would be twelve and fourteen now, Brass knew. Marilyn Hegel's two sons. They had been three and five years old respectively, when she had been murdered. The younger one, certainly, wouldn't even have any real memories of his mother. The older one might possibly have brief recollections of specific incidents that had been particularly pleasurable or emotional. Heightened perhaps by any photographs or video the family had of the pretty blonde.

An acute wave of desolation rolled over the detective, at the unfairness of life. By all accounts, Marilyn Hegel had cherished her young boys, and was an exemplary mother. He knew the depth of parental love. But because some anonymous bastard had chosen her to be his victim, she would never get to see her children grow up. They would never really know her, or how much she had loved them, or even remember the times they had laughed with her, or that she had held them in her comforting embrace to calm their sorrows or their fears. What a terrible cruelty, to love someone so much and to never get the chance to know that they truly understood the depth of your feelings for them.

Brass didn't want to get out of the sedan, to hike up the short walkway, and press the doorbell. He wanted to put the car into drive, and leave the family undisturbed, making the best of the life that Fate had afforded them. He didn't want to bring old horrors and old pain sharply to the fore again. Opening old wounds.

He wanted a cigarette. Jim found that he was having to battle his nicotine cravings with increasing frequency these days. It had been years since he had wanted one with more than a passing thought. Last night, on his way home, he'd stopped at a convenience store for a six pack of Coors Light, and for a moment his lips had almost formed the request for a pack of Winstons. Why worry about lung cancer when there was a good probability that in a very short time he could be pushing up daisies at the local cemetery anyways? He'd battled back the self-defeating thoughts and the craving that had accompanied them.

He dreaded having to tell Sean Hegel that he was re-investigating his wife's murder from almost a decade ago. Jim wished there was some other way to get the information he needed. The family had been through enough, more than anyone should have to bear. The detective had contacted the employer that Sean Hegel had been working for at the time of Marilyn's murder, a company that did carpet installations, and had learned that Sean was still employed there. But business had been slow the last few weeks, and Hegel had the day off. Rather than calling ahead, Brass had hopped on the parkway and headed over.

He had wondered, as he drove along, obeying the speed limit, and glancing repeatedly in his rearview mirror, if the killer was attempting to trail him at all. If he was, Brass wondered what the guy would think when he stopped in front of the Hegel's new home. If he would know who lived there. Would make the connection. Would realize what the detective's visit there meant. But there had been only one other vehicle exit off of Summerlin Parkway onto Town Centre behind him, a red Toyota. It had continued on when he had signaled and turned onto the Hegel's street, not circling back even though the detective had waited.

There was no point sitting there agonizing over things, Brass reasoned. Perhaps Sean Hegel wasn't even home. Whether he was or not, it would only be delaying the inevitable though. Brass had to speak with him. Maybe it wasn't his favourite part, but it _was_ part of the job. And they had no other leads to their killer. He climbed out of the car and marched determinedly up to the door.

Sean Hegel opened it before the chimes had stopped echoing in the interior of the home. Brass recognized the other man right away. Hegel was about medium height, light brown curly hair, now with a great deal of grey, and pale blue eyes ringed with a darker hue. The man had put on thirty or forty pounds, but he carried it well. And he sported a neatly trimmed beard now, whereas he had been clean shaven before. But clearly it was the same man.

Hegel recognized him as well, before Jim could even introduce himself, his reaction one that the detective had not anticipated. Sean Hegel's face crumbled, and he clutched the edge of the door. In a broken voice he gasped, "Oh God, no, not one of my boys..."

"No, no, Mr. Hegel," Brass put in hurriedly, "I'm not here about your sons. They're just fine." The man associated him with death, Jim realized. And why wouldn't he? He was a homicide detective, and there weren't a lot of reasons he'd be knocking at someone's door that didn't pertain to a murder investigation. Brass felt lousy for the panicked terror his unannounced appearance had evoked in the other man.

Hegel recovered quickly, his features sagging with relief. "I thought..." he said quietly, just letting the unfinished sentence hang in the air. He looked at Brass uncertainly. "Detective...Martens?" he tried to put a name to the face.

"Brass," Jim supplied.

"Sean, who is it?" a female voice quizzed, and then a woman was standing behind Hegel in the shadows of the foyer.

"A police officer," he told her. And then he added quickly, "Nothing to do with Jeff and Ian." Hegel stepped back. "Come in, Detective."

Brass entered the home, stepping onto the immaculate slate tiles of the foyer. There was a small, formal living room to the right, and looking further down the hallway, he could see a more casual family room, with a raised gas fireplace set into the wall. The woman was a tall, plump redhead, whose pretty features were covered with freckles. She looked at him curiously with dark blue eyes.

"So what _is_ this about then?" Sean inquired matter-of-factly.

"There's no easy way to say this, Mr. Hegel. I've reopened the investigation into your wife's murder. New information has come to light, I'm not at liberty to say just what, of course, but something to make us question some of the details about what happened." Brass paused, under the stunned stares. "About who else might have been involved."

"I don't get it," Hegel said hollowly. Then taking a deep breath, "I guess we'd better go sit down." He began to lead the way down the hall, and Brass followed. "Allie, hon, maybe you could make some coffee. Would you like coffee, Detective Brass?"

Jim didn't really, but he could see how on edge the woman was, and knew that she could probably use something to do to get over her nervousness. Such as the familiar task of putting on a pot of coffee. And perhaps Hegel wanted her out of earshot for a few minutes. Brass wondered if the woman was a girlfriend, or maybe a second wife. The endearment indicated she was not likely a sister or other family member. "Thanks, that would be great," he smiled.

The family room was spotless as well, the wood floor buffed to a beautiful sheen, the room nicely decorated but uncluttered. Sean Hegel sat on a brown cordouroy recliner, and Brass settled onto a matching sofa. "Allie is my second wife," Hegel answered the unasked question. "We started dating about a year after...after Marilyn died. We've been married six years. The boys love her and she just adores them. She's their mom, for all intents and purposes. They can't really remember Marilyn. Jeff can, at times, at least he thinks he can. Ian has no recollection at all. Mostly, they only know her from the stories I tell them."

Brass noticed the framed eight by ten photograph of Marilyn Hegel on the mantle. He was glad to see that her memory had not been banished to a box in the attic. He felt a rising respect for the second Mrs. Hegel, that she was secure enough in herself and her marriage, to display the likeness of her deceased predecessor so prominently in the home. There were other photos, of course, a wedding photo of Sean and Allie Hegel. Recent school photos of the boys; good looking kids.

"Marilyn was my high school sweetheart," Sean Hegel told him quietly. "We got married right out of school. We were so young. People thought she must be pregnant," he laughed. "But it wasn't that, we were just so crazy about one another. Couldn't stand to be apart. The boys came along later. We hadn't gone to college, either of us, but we did all right. We had our rough spots, of course, like everyone. But I never once regretted marrying her. When she died...when that bastard Juneau killed her...I didn't know how I could go on. How I could take care of the boys. I still miss her, sometimes, you know? Like, I'll hear a joke that I know would have given her the giggles, or I'll see a bouquet of pink roses...she liked pink roses...and I'll just get this awful _ache..._"

Hegel sighed. "It took me a long, long time to get myself together. To get over the anger and the hatred. The guilt. Even though Juneau was dead, and I was glad he was, it just seemed like he got off too easy." The pale blue eyes assessed the detective. "And now you're telling me that there was more to it. That...what...he wasn't the only one involved? How can that be? And why are you just finding out now, after all this time?" There was a hard edge to the man's voice.

"I really can't say," Brass replied reluctantly. "And I need to ask you to not talk about this with anyone. It could hinder our investigation. I do have a couple of questions for you though, if you don't mind."

"Sure," Sean told him resignedly.

"We know your wife did her banking at the Sunrise Centre Mall, at the Wells Fargo, every two weeks, and her paycheque was deposited into a chequing account there." Hegel nodded. "Did she ever had an account at the Las Vegas Tower branch?"

Sean Hegel frowned. "No, we had an account with Chase before we got the mortgage on the old house, and then switched to Wells Fargo, at the Sunrise Centre."

"I know you probably wouldn't know every single transaction your wife did at each ATM around town, and I'll verify with your old account records...but do you know if your wife might have had reason to use an ATM at the Tower? Or maybe some other reason to be there from time to time? A friend who worked in the building? Some other shop or service she might have used on occasion?" Jim waited.

Hegel frowned. "No, not that I know of."

"Here we are," Allie Hegel's soft voice broke in, as she entered the room carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of coffee, and a small cream pitcher and sugar bowl in a matching pattern. She held it while the two men thanked her and took their cups. Brass drank his black, and Sean with a bit of cream and a spoonful of sugar. She looked apprehensively from one to the other, unsure what to make of the detective's visit. "Would you like a cookie or a tea biscuit or anything?" she inquired solicitously.

"No, I'm good thanks," Brass responded with a smile. He sipped the hot brew. "This is very good."

She smiled back, then glanced at her spouse. "Well, I have some laundry to put on." He nodded and she left them alone again.

"Did she frequent any of the stores in the Sunrise Centre?" Jim continued.

"Marilyn didn't really like that mall," Sean confessed. "She mostly just did the banking there. She prefered to shop at the Galleria. Though she wasn't much of a shopper, not like how some women are, you know? She was pretty frugal." He spoke with a quiet pride. "Got her money's worth out of things. Only bought on sale. She used consignment stores for a lot of the kids' stuff. But at Christmas time, she'd go to the Galleria to get gifts for people. She said the selection was better."

Brass took the information in. So far, there was nothing helpful in anything Sean Hegel had told him. "I have to ask you about her undergarments, Mr. Hegel. Did your wife ever buy her lingerie at a place called Lacy's Closet?"

"She used to buy her bras and underwear at Walmart," Hegel answered. "Just plain stuff, not what I'd call lingerie, not that silky stuff. When we were first married, she used to wear that kind of thing more often. I used to get her fancy stuff for our anniversary and Valentine's Day. But she used to get these infections," he admitted, colouring slightly. "And her gynocologist told her to try cotton underwear, it was supposed to breathe better or something. It worked. After that she'd only wear the fancy stuff for special occasions." There was a faint, fond smile at the remembrance. "But no, I never bought stuff anywhere but Victoria's Secret, and she didn't buy that kind of thing for herself at all once Jeff was born. Didn't think it looked good on her, but it did. Women...they can be so funny that way, huh?"

_So much for that angle,_ Brass thought tiredly. He took a long swig of the coffee, before setting the cup down on the coffee table. "One more question. Did Marilyn ever mention anything about someone at the bank, a teller or a security guard or something, who made her feel uncomfortable? Someone who gave off that same kind of vibe that Todd Juneau did? Looked at her in a way that she didn't like? Maybe said something that she didn't think was appropriate? Anything like that?"

"There was this one teller, an older woman, that Marilyn couldn't stand. Said she was so slow, and real snotty. But I don't think that's what you mean, is it?" Brass shook his head. "I don't remember her ever saying anything about some guy at the bank. You think someone working there might have been involved in some way? Had something to do with her abduction and her murder?" The pale blue eyes were haunted.

"I don't think anything yet, Mr. Hegel," Brass replied cautiously. "I'm just trying to collect information."

"Why wasn't anyone asking these questions nine years ago?" Sean asked, his voice a pitch higher.

"Recently, there have been some new questions raised about what happened at the time your wife was killed. But I really can't say any more than that right now," the detective said with regret.

"So if this new investigation leads somewhere, are you going to tell me what you find out?" Hegel demanded.

"If we find out anything conclusive, that has a bearing on your wife's case, then yes I'll be back to share that myself," Jim promised, rising.

He looked again at the school photos of the Hegel boys. Wondering what their lives had been like in the past nine years. Wondering how the tragic and violent loss of their mother at such tender ages, had affected them. How it might shape the young men they would become. He wondered about the other victims, in other states, and the loved ones they had left behind. Each death was like a stone tossed into the still waters of a pond, with the loss and the anguish rippling out with lasting effect on the lives of so many others. Brass had to stop the son-of-a-bitch before he killed again. Before another innocent woman ended up a framed memory on the mantle of those left to cope with the tragedy.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Beth Marchison's next of kin was listed as her mother, Dorothy Marchison. After Beth's divorce from her ex-husband Carl Ryker, she had evidently reverted to her maiden name. Brass wasn't sure how much information he might get from the elderly woman, but he had telephoned her when he got back to the station after visiting Sean Hegel.

Mrs. Marchison still had the same phone number and was still at the same address that she had been at nine years prior. Brass had called and identified himself, explaining that he was following up some loose ends from her daughter's murder, and asking if he could come by that afternoon to talk with her. Dorothy Marchison's voice had been neutral, as she had agreed to the request.

The woman lived in a small, gated retirement community called the Promenade, located west of Decatur and south of Meadows Lane near the Meadows Mall. There was an impressive entry with a small lake and lovely waterscape near the guardhouse. Brass gave his name and was waved through. The professionally landscaped grounds were well-tended. He drove slowly along winding roads past larger detached homes, and smaller residences that shared a common wall. He passed an energetic couple in tennis whites, power walking along the road, and a man taking a stroll with a Scottish Terrier. Mrs. Marchison, he knew, lived in one of the attached villas. Her home was on the right, just past the community pool and club house.

Dorothy Marchison opened the door so quickly, Brass almost had to wonder if she hadn't been standing there watching for him. She was a petite, white-haired woman, in her mid to late eighties he guessed, her dark eyes magnified behind the lenses of bi-focals. She was stylishly dressed in a skirt and blouse, and wearing a touch of make up as appropriate for a woman of her age. In one arm, she held a small, white dog with a scarlet ribbon bright against the fur on the top of its head.

"Hello, Detective," she said, and her voice was strong and clear. "Do come in, please."

The villa was larger than it had appeared from the outside, spacious, with an open floor plan. The furniture, against walls of pale pink, were cherrywood antiques, or expensive reproductions.

"I thought we might go out back, if that's all right. There's still some shade there, this time of day," Dorothy Marchison commented, then began to lead the way without waiting for his approval. There was nothing feeble or unsteady about her steps, and her back was ramrod straight.

The rear yard was a delight of colour and sound. Amongst the palmettos were raised beds of annuals and perennials, in a sea of pinks and corals. A large, stone wall fountain was just outside the sliding door, and it bubbled a lyrical tune. There was a solid teak patio set grouped on a concrete pad, painted the same coral colour at the exterior of the home. In the centre of the table was a crystal pitcher of lemonade, with ice cubes not yet melted inside, and two crystal goblets.

"Lemonade?" the elderly woman asked, as she set the little dog on the grass, where it sat, its pink tongue lolling.

"Thank you," Brass accepted graciously. "You have a beautiful home," he complimented, taking the glass and waiting for her to be seated first.

"Thank you. We like it here, don't we Tia?" She smiled at the dog as she sat down. Then to Jim. "So you said you are trying to tie up some loose ends from my daughter's case?" For the first time, her aged features lost their serenity and there was pain etched in each wrinkled crevice. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Some things have come to light recently that have raised questions about some of the details of the case," Brass found himself explaining for the second time that day.

"How can I help you?" she wanted to know.

"I'm not sure how close you and your daughter were," he began delicately.

"Quite close." Dorothy Marchison gave a bittersweet smile. "Elizabeth was our only child. We had almost given up hope of ever being blessed that way. I was in my thirties, my husband was forty, and we'd been married for ten years, when I became pregnant with her. I'd lost four babies over the years, and the doctor had recommended that I not risk trying again. But as happy as Stanley and I were with one another, we just felt that something was missing. That our lives weren't complete.

"It was a difficult pregnancy, and I was on bed rest for the last two months. But she arrived, pink and healthy with a mass of dark hair and those big, dark eyes. Stanley lost his heart the moment he laid eyes on her. Because we had waited so long, and had almost given up hope, we both doted on Elizabeth. We spoiled her, but she wasn't _spoiled_, you understand? We were all close, the three of us, but she was a Daddy's girl." Dorothy Marchison stopped speaking, and her voice became tight. Brass saw the shimmer in her eyes. "He died five months after Elizabeth was murdered. It broke his heart. He just didn't want to live, any more," she told him quietly.

"I'm sorry for your loss," the detective said sincerely, thinking again of a stone dropping into a pond, and the rippling effect.

"Stanley never did think Carl was good enough for his daughter. He seemed like a nice enough young man, I thought, and Elizabeth adored him. Stanley kept his reservations between he and I though. Even after they moved to Reno, she would call me twice a week and we would talk. And we still saw them regularly, moreso even I think when my grandson Dylan was born."

Dylan Ryker would be twenty-four years old, Brass calculated.

Dorothy Marchison continued. "After the divorce, Elizabeth moved back here to Las Vegas. She didn't ask for alimony from Carl, even though she had never worked during the duration of their marriage, and hadn't finished college and didn't have a degree. Not that she wasn't smart enough, heaven knows she was, but she just wasn't sure what she wanted to do with her life, when she was that age, just out of her teens. And then she married Carl not long after that. He had a good job, so she didn't have to work. And she enjoyed being home with Dylan.

"Stanley and I gave her money for the down payment on the house, but she wouldn't accept any other help from us, and insisted that it was just a loan. She said that she wanted to be on her own, responsible for herself, for the first time in her life. She told me that she had always been someone's daughter, and someone's wife, and now she just wanted to be Beth." The elderly woman shook her head indulgently. "Women these days have such funny ideas, don't you think, Detective? It's almost as if there's some shame in being a wife and a mother, as though that isn't good enough. A different generation I suppose," she mused.

Brass listened quietly while she spoke of her daughter, enjoying what he knew had to be freshly squeezed lemonade.

"So, she got herself a job, as a cocktail waitress. Stanley was horrified, at first. I think he had visions of her going topless in some cheap bar." Dorothy Marchison blushed. "But it wasn't like that. She dressed modestly, and served drinks at one of the nicer hotels. It seemed to bring her pleasure, and she didn't mind the menial work. Though she was planning to take some classes at the university. She had always wanted to be a teacher. Stanley tried to encourage her to quit working, and to apply full-time. He told her that we could cover her expenses comfortably enough. But Elizabeth was so bound and determined to be independent." She sighed.

"We would talk on the phone every few days though. She would tell me about a new man she was dating. Or about how things were going with Dylan, with school and sports. She and Dylan were close too. It was a terrible blow to him when he lost his mother." She paused again, swallowing hard. "Anyhow, yes, we were quite close, Detective."

Seeming to sense her mistress's mood, the small dog came closer and pressed against her shins. Marchison reached down distractedly to rub its ears.

"I know that your daughter did her banking with Wells Fargo, at the Las Vegas Tower branch," Brass began.

"Yes, that's where Stanley and I had our accounts, so they were more kindly disposed to giving Beth a mortgage for the house," she replied.

"And our investigations have shown that on occasion she would use the ATM machine at the Sunrise Centre Mall."

"I'm not aware of that, but she didn't tell me all of the little, inconsequential details of her life, of course."

"Of course not," Brass agreed. "Did Beth ever mention to you, about any kind of incident that occured at either bank? An employee who was inappropriate? Someone who made her uncomfortable? Maybe another customer even?"

Mrs. Marchison considered the question. "Not that I can recall, no. No one that made her uneasy enough that she felt it was worth mentioning. She was a beautiful woman, and men were often expressing their interest I'm sure. Sometimes, if she returned the interest, she'd tell me about them. There hadn't been anyone special for a while. Elizabeth really wasn't looking for another relationship though at that point in her life."

The detective nodded his comprehension. "I understand that the house and all of its contents, all of her personal effects, went to you and your husband after her death?"

There was another pained look. "Yes, that's right. She had a will, and I was named the executor. There was insurance on the mortgage, and so the balance was paid in full. Stanley arranged for the house to be sold, and the money was put into trust for Dylan, as our daughter had requested. We kept a couple of small pieces of furniture for ourselves, just for sentimental reasons, and then allowed her friends to select anything they wanted as a remembrance of her. Everything else went to the Good Will."

"Her personal items," Brass mentioned, "such as clothing. Were you involved in clearing out her closets and drawers?"

"Yes, I saw to that myself. I chose her favourite dress for...for the burial. Some things, again, I gave to friends of hers. The rest I donated to a battered woman's shelter. Someone came to pick them up."

"Do you remember anything about her undergarments?" Brass queried.

Dorothy Marchison looked at him strangely. "Her undergarments?" she repeated.

"There's a woman's lingerie shop, called Lacy's Closet. Do you know if Beth ever purchased items from there?"

"Lacy's Closet?" She furrowed her brow. "It doesn't sound familiar at all. It wasn't really a topic that came up in conversation though. Elizabeth liked nice things, however. We taught her that she deserved to pamper herself. She always went for quality over quantity when it came to clothing. For her foundation garments as well as her outerwear and footwear. If that helps at all."

It wasn't likely that Beth Marchison had ever shopped at Lacy's Closet either then. Brass tried to stifle a sigh of frustration. "Do you know if, besides the bank's ATM machine, there were any stores or businesses that your daughter might have patronized at the Sunrise Centre?" There had to be something, Brass thought, to have brought Beth Marchison to that particular ATM machine on more than one occasion.

"I'm sorry, I really don't know," the elderly woman replied at length.

The dog had wandered over to his chair, and was sniffing at Brass' pantleg now. He reached down and the pale, pink tongue lapped softly against the back of his hand. "Cute little pup," he remarked.

"Tia is a Maltese," Dorothy Marchison explained with a smile. "She's not really a puppy. She's nine years old now." The smile faltered for a moment. "She was Elizabeth's dog. She had only just gotten her. Tia really was just a puppy then, only a few months old. Stanley and I took her in. He wasn't really a dog person, but Tia brought me comfort. A living, tangible connection to Elizabeth, that I could touch and hug and care for every day."

Brass stroked the long, silky fur. He didn't know what to say to that, so he just focused his attention on the dog.

"I still have a couple of boxes of Elizabeth's things in the storage space above the garage," Dorothy Marchison was saying. Brass looked up with interest. "Papers and things. Taxes. Financial statements and bank records. Receipts. She was very organized. We kept them at first, because Stanley said we should have them for at least seven years. And then when that time came and went, I just...couldn't seem to ever get around to parting with them."

"Would you mind if I borrowed them, Mrs. Marchison?" the detective said hopefully. "I promise to get them back to you in the same condition, when I'm done." It was a longshot, there being anything useful among the papers. They would have been examined at the time of the initial investigation. But there was always the faintest chance that something might have been missed.

"If you think it might help you in some way, then certainly," she acquiesced.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

There were three large, plastic storage boxes of papers that Brass had climbed up a small ladder to retrieve from a small crawlspace above the garage of Dorothy Marchison's home. He left two of them now in the trunk of the sedan. His eyes ached just at the thought of having to wade through all of that small type.

Brass was surprised to find the door to his office open. He had thought he had locked it. He was even more surprised to find Annie Kramer seated behind his desk, looking for all the world as though she belonged there. She broke out in a big grin when he entered the room, pushing up from the chair and quickly covering the distance between them while he set the box on the floor, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace.

"Jimmy!" she greeted ebulliently.

"What are you doing here?" he asked with a grin, as she released him. "And how did you get in my office?"

"Since this case you're working on has something to do with Joe Takei's death, I figured I should get out here and see what was up," she announced. "And then a very nice sergeant let me in here, when I showed him my badge and told him we were old friends."

"How long have you been here?" Brass asked, not sure whether he was delighted that she was in Vegas, or chagrined. "And why didn't you call to tell me you were coming? I could have met you at the airport."

"Not long. Half an hour or so. I would have tried you on your cell, if you'd been much longer. And if I'd called before I left L.A., you would have tried to talk me out of coming," she said wryly. He didn't deny it. "I amused myself by looking at all of these citations you've got," Annie told him, jerking a thumb towards the plaques and framed certificates on the wall. "You should be proud, Jimmy."

He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled his thanks.

"So how are you holding up?" she asked levelly, eyeing him critically. "You look tired."

"I feel like I'm racing the clock," he replied, "so sleep is kind of low on my totem pole right now."

"How are you _feeling_?" Annie inquired worriedly. "I mean about the letter and everything?"

Brass reached to rub the back of his neck, cocking his head and looking at her warily. "You know how it is. Every day a cop puts on the badge and gun and goes to work, there's a danger."

She just stared at him, crossing her arms. "This is me, Jimmy. It's different and you know it."

"You deal with it," he sighed. "Just like back in Jersey when I was undercover. Same thing."

She shook her head. "No, it's not. There you knew who you had to watch your back against. You knew who your enemies were. You don't know a damned thing about this guy. Only that he wants you dead." Her dark, knowing eyes pinned him.

"Look, what do you want me to say?" Brass bit out in frustration. "It's lousy. It really, really sucks." His hands clenched into fists at his side. "Every time someone walks by me on the street, I wonder if he's the guy. Every time I'm on the road, I spend more time looking back than I do looking ahead. Every time I ate something at home, I would wonder if it's poisoned, so I just threw all the damned food away, and I've been eating out since.

"But not at the usual places I'd go to. I've tried to alter all of my habits. Stopped going for coffee at the place around the corner where I've been going for years. Trying not to be too predictable." He wasn't conscious that his voice had risen. "Every time I start my car, even with the alarm system, part of me wonders if the damn thing is going to blow up. And whenever I close my eyes, I just lay there wondering if I'll ever wake up again. And when I do get to sleep finally, I have nightmares about murdered women.

"But the worst thing, now that I've got this invisible bull's eyes painted on my back," Brass growled, the anger covering his fear, his dark eyes narrowed, "is that every time I'm around another human being, I get this godawful sick feeling in the pit of my stomache, that the son-of-a-bitch is going to make his move, and something is going to go wrong. And that someone else...maybe someone I care about..." Cecilia's lovely, bronzed features floated before him on his inner eye, "...is going to end up in a _body bag_, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time!"

Brass turned his body then, looking away, his eyes unnaturally bright, ashamed of his outburst. He unclenched his hands and wriggled his fingers, and drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to still the staccato beating of his heart, and calm the blood that pounded in his temples.

Annie moved closer, putting a slender hand on his arm, and rubbing gently through his shirt. She slipped both of her arms around his and held it then, laying her cheek against his shoulder. She could feel his pain, as deeply as though it were her own. She wished that she could absord it all, the fear and the hurt and guilt. She licked her lips and swallowed hard, blinking the tears from her eyes. _"We'll get him, Jimmy," _she vowed softly.


	43. Chapter 43

_My apologies for the length of the delay between posting chapters 42 and 43. I lost my muse. It seems to have come home though, so hopefully it won't be quite that long before chapter 44 makes it's appearance. I know that it is unfair to a loyal reader who has been following the story to keep them waiting so long, and I've felt badly about that. It took me a long time to get this one 'right' though, when it usually comes so easily. Hopefully it came together the way I wanted it to. Thanks all for your continued support! Cathy_

Chapter 43

"I get what you mean now, when you said things were complicated," Annie spoke quietly, looking at Brass across the desk.

Jim looked up into the dark, assessing eyes. He frowned slightly, not understanding the remark. Brass and Annie Kramer had spent the last few hours reviewing the case, making conjectures, bouncing ideas off of one another, and trying to make sense of what information they had to date. They had found time, in between tasks, to consume a medium-sized pizza with the works.

Sitting with Jim Brass in his office, sharing pizza, had taken Annie back to the years when they had worked together in New Jersey. Logging overtime, working on one case or another. Jimmy jumping at the chance to stay late to avoid going home to the stress and misery of a lousy marriage. And she just happy to be near him. It had been over one of those thick-crusted, gooey, Jersey pan pizzas that their affair had begun.

Jimmy had handed her a warm slice on a thin, paper plate, juggling to keep it from sliding off as the paper, soaking up excess oil, began to bend beneath the weight. He'd given her a lopsided grin that was both so sweet and so sexy that her heart began to jackhammer in her chest, and her throat grew tight. Annie had touched the back of his hand before taking the plate. Allowing her fingers to linger there, softly, hesitantly. Caressing his skin. She didn't think that she'd ever been so nervous in her life.

The previous couple of months had been inexorably drawing to that moment. She'd hero-worshipped him, after his undercover work. Befriended him over beers as he'd gradually shared with her the unhappiness that marked his relationship with Nancy. Fallen in love with him, as the days of working together turned into weeks, and she got to know him not just as a cop, but as a man.

Annie thought that she'd been able to read the signals, but she was young, and though she'd had relationships before, she was still relatively inexperienced. But those times when their laughter would change to soft smiles, and lingering looks, seemed to indicate to her that on some level Jim Brass cared for her in the way she had come to care for him. At the very least, she could feel the physical chemistry between them.

But whether or not that would ever go anywhere, had remained the unanswered question. Many nights Annie had lain awake in the dark, agonizing on whether or not she even _should_ pursue anything with Jim Brass. He was, after all, a married man, no matter how troubled the marriage. And there was a child involved. Before meeting Jimmy, Annie would never have entertained the idea of being any man's mistress. But as time had progressed, and she had fallen inretrievably in love with him, the line between right and wrong had blurred. Morality no longer seemed a concept of such absolutes.

And then she had taken the plunge, her move unplanned and unrehearsed, and the soft pads of her fingers had danced lightly, meaningfully, over the small hairs on the back of his hand. And for one long moment, one detached part of her looked on horrified at her boldness, while the other desperate part waited with all of the hopes and dreams her youthful heart could have contemplated.

The memory was so clear to Annie then, though she hadn't thought about it in years. Jimmy's hand had hovered in midair that fateful night, his lips pressed together uncertainly, his eyes dark with an emotion she was too afraid to decipher. His other hand reached up to cover hers, and Annie had held her breath, wondering if he would clasp it and remove it. Ending things before they had ever begun. She had been unable to speak. Unable to say all of those magical words she used to imagine she would say to him when this moment finally came. Instead, she waited silently, understanding that the next move was his, and wondering how she would ever live with the heartbreak and humiliation of his turning her down.

He did gather her hand in his, pulling it away, still grasping the plate in the other. And tears had pricked at the corner of Annie's eyes, blurring her vision. She didn't see him set the pizza on the desk, and couldn't make out his features, but then his face descended. And finally, his lips were on hers, and Jimmy was murmuring her name. And never in Annie's life, before that or since, had there been such a kiss.

And now, years later, there they were again, and once more he had been passing her a slice of pizza on a cheap, paper plate that bowed beneath its weight. Only they were older now. There were deep crevices in Jimmy's brow, and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. His hairline had receded. And underneath the skilled colour applications of Annie's hairstylist, were more strands of grey than the number of weeks that had passed since that night.

But her affection for him, and her desire, had not been subdued by the passing of time. Annie had searched Jim's eyes for some sign of recognition to the similarity of that other night. Some sign of recollection. But there was none, just his distracted observation as he handed it to her, that the pizza was, thankfully, still warm. His gaze hadn't even been on her, but on the papers spread out across the desktop.

Of course, this was not a night for fond remembrances of elicit prior liasons, for Jim Brass. Not a time to relax and reminisce. The black hands of the clock on the wall, stark against the simple, white face, were a reminder that every second that ticked by and found them no closer to finding their adversary, might at the same time be bringing the killer one deadly step closer to Jim.

An email had come through late in the day from human resources at Wells Fargo, forwarded by Ian Gracie, as the bank manager had promised. They had quickly sorted employee names, rejecting outright those who were women, and then concentrating on the men who had been at the Sunrise branch nine years ago.

From these, they had narrowed the list down to four, including Gracie. The other three were a teller named Abe Harrison, a loans officer, Adrian Cortez, and Ron Kizinski, a security guard. The first two were still in Vegas, Cortez was with the bank but elsewhere in Nevada, and Kizinski was recently retired. It shouldn't be too difficult to determine if any of the men had been out of state in the last several years, at the time of the other murders.

While their efforts had been, and would continue to be time consuming, Brass didn't really consider them _complicated_ and couldn't remember saying any such thing. In response to Annie's strange comment, he just crooked a bushy brow.

"Your lady friend," she continued, to his surprise.

Brass was taken aback by her reference to Cecilia.

"I was here at the station about ten minutes before I heard the rumours," Annie admitted, looking slightly uneasy. "They say she's very beautiful. I don't know if you'd started things before or after Detective Martens was killed, and I'm the last one to judge you either way. But if it was recent, just be careful Jimmy. I think it would be natural to, you know, turn to one another after a loss. And if things started before that, I'm sure there are a lot of feelings, guilt not the least of them." She hesitated. "I know it's not any of my business but...I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Annie was talking about _Amy Martens_, Brass realized in astonishment. There were rumours going around about he and Denny Martens' widow? He couldn't understand that. Then he recalled with striking clarity the day that Amy had brought him the letter she had found in her husband's safe. How, as she was getting ready to leave, she had admitted to missing Denny, and the tears had flown. Jim had put his arms around her, comforting her. And the sheriff had come into Brass' office just then.

_Mobley!_ It would be just like him to start the spark of such a rumour and then fan it until it spread through the station like a dry season wildfire. A muscle in the detective's left jaw began to spasm then as he clenched his teeth against his fury. Mobley might be pissed at him, but to drag Amy Martens into things...to do something to compromise her reputation...was unconscienable as far as Jim was concerned.

Annie thought he had been refering to Amy Martens when they had had dinner in L.A. that evening. When he had mentioned that his current relationship was _complicated. _And now Annie believed that either he'd been having an affair with Denny's wife while the other cop was still alive, or that in the aftermath of the other man's death, grief had turned somehow to lust.

Brass struggled to keep his digust and irritation at the sheriff from spilling over towards Annie. It was just as well that she had decided to bring up what she had heard. And really, considering his history, it wasn't totally off the wall for Annie to think there might be truth in the rumour. It had probably been on her mind since he had first walked through his door, even as they had been discussing the case. And he hadn't told her anything about Cecilia, not even her name, so all that Annie had known was that there _was_ someone.

Drawing a deep breath and expelling it in frustration, Jim looked levelly across the desk at his old friend. "There's nothing between Amy Martens and I," he told her. "Nothing like that. There wasn't before Denny was killed, there's not now, and there never will be. I think I know who's behind the rumour though, and why."

Annie looked confused. Then she coloured. "I'm sorry, Jimmy..." she began apologetically.

"It's okay, Annie. Forget it," he interjected with a tired smile. "Now," he said, deftly turning conversation back to the case, "Kizinski is sixty years old. That puts him outside the age range of the profile, but we can't rule him out on that alone, it's only a guideline. The other three fall inside the profile, as far as age goes. The first thing I think we need to do is feed these names in, and see if any of them have any kind of rap sheet."

Annie was grateful to get back to work. She was mentally kicking herself for having said anything to Brass at all. But since hearing the rumour she hadn't been able to put it out of her head. She had been both curious and concerned. She felt foolish and realized that it had been stupid to even bring it up in the first place. With all that Jim was dealing with...with his very life on the line...the last thing he needed was to waste energy discussing or negating rumours about his private life. It had been a real error in judgement on her part. She had let her own personal feelings of loss and envy colour her decision making, and Annie deeply regretted letting Jim down that way.

She returned her attention to the case with renewed vigour, determined to make it up to him by either quickly eliminating these four possible suspects, or if they found one interesting, in gathering as much information as quickly and adroitly as possibly.

They went over what they knew about each of the men. At the time of the murder, Ian Gracie, now forty-four, had been at the Tower branch, where Beth Marchison had her account. They would have to double check Marilyn Hegel's old receipts and records to determine whether or not there was anything to link her to the Tower. If she had, it was possible that Gracie had seen the two women there. They would also need to discover if he had had occasion to go to the Sunrise branch location during their timeframe.

Abe Harrison, the teller, had worked at the Sunrise branch at the time of the holiday murders, and had continued to work there steadily for the past nine years. He was now thirty-two.

Adrian Cortez had also been a teller at the Sunrise branch nine years ago. He had been promoted to loans officer and transfered to a branch in Carson City four years ago, where he had worked since. Cortez was thirty-six years old.

The personnel records that Gracie had provided had given the employees' work histories, names, and dates of birth, but not their home addresses, social insurance numbers, marital status, or other personal information. Names and birth dates would be enough to do a quick search for any criminal record. Unless there had been a pardon though, any kind of prior felony would mean that the men were not bondable, a necessity for working in such a field.

Their first hit was for Gracie, who had a history of traffic violations, including several speeding tickets, and one citation for reckless driving. He had always paid his fines in a timely manner though and there were no outstanding warrants. "I'd hate to have to pay his insurance," Brass remarked, imagining what the premium would be for the new Mercedes that was registered in Gracie's name.

Abe Harrison's' name also turned up in the search. There had been a domestic abuse charge against him six years ago, in Las Vegas. Charges had been dropped after Harrison had agreed to voluntarily enter an anger management programme. "That's interesting," Annie mused. "Guy's got a bit of a temper and apparently has a history of taking it out on women."

"I'll have to talk to these guys in person," Brass stated. "Size them up. I didn't get any weird vibes from Gracie. He didn't appear shaken at all to see us, but the secretary would have warned him that the police wanted an appointment and a slick guy would have had time to compose himself. But I'll have another chat with him, run his credit cards, see if he's taken any out-of-state trips in the last several years."

Brass had looked into Ian Gracie's face, stared into the other man's eyes, wondering if this was the serial killer who planned to make him his next target. He hadn't seen anything there, neither contempt, nor animosity, nor wariness that would indicate to him that Gracie was their man. But he'd been fooled before. Not often. But his instincts weren't infallible.

Brass sighed, reaching up to rub the back of his neck, then cranking it first one way than the other, in an attempt to alleviate some of the strain from hours spent bent over paperwork. He could feel the beginnings of a tension headache, hovering behind his eyes. Slithering tendrils radiated from the back of his skull, up into his temples, tentatively exerting those first exploratory fingers of pressure. He knew he should take a break. Worse...he knew that he couldn't. And the vexation that accompanied that realization only gave strength to gathering forces that intended to wage war against his cerebrum in the battleground of his cranial cavity.

"You're getting a headache," Annie remarked quietly, her perceptive gaze focused on him.

Jim shrugged. "I've got some Anacin around him someplace."

Annie stood, coming around the desk behind him. She laid one slim, warm hand on his right shoulder at the crook of his neck, feeling the knot of mucles beneath her fingers. "You're so tense," she said sympathetically. "Maybe a quick massage will help."

"Naw, it's okay," Brass mumbled discomfittedly.

Ignoring the protestation, Annie's fingers begin to knead the tight flesh through the fabric of his shirt. They seemed to remember the terrain of his physique, knowing each curve of muscle. Jim used to enjoy the neck rubs she would give him, kneeling behind him while he perched on the edge of her bed, and shared with her the stresses of his day.

His body seemed to remember too, and his head drooped forward the way it always had. Annie imagined that Jim's eyes would be closed, as he began to revel in the easing of the tension that banded his frame. From this angle, she could see the small, circular patch of pink scalp and the thinning of his hair. Annie felt a poignancy at the passing of time.

She didn't like to examine her own body too closely in the mirror these days. Age had seemed to suck the youthful plumpness and moisture out of her lips, leaving them thinner, with tiny, fine lines that her lipstick would bleed into, if she applied it too heavily. While she hadn't really put on much weight over the years, only half a dozen pounds or so, her body had redistributed itself in a way that she found depressing. The curves of her buttocks had seemed to flatten, and the mounds of her breasts had drooped somewhat. And no matter what she did, she couldn't get rid of the slight paunch at her abdomen.

They were no longer in their prime, neither of them. Annie wasn't sure just how or when youth had deserted her. She had been so busy with other things. One thing really. With her work, the career that had come to mean everything to her. Though whether that was because she had nothing else and being a cop filled the gaps in her life...or that because being a cop was so fulfilling that she simply hadn't needed anything else...Annie could never be certain.

Being here with Jim now, thinking of all of those years that she had spent alone...all of the years that he had been alone too...Annie wondered why she had never made the effort to reconnect with him again. Once his marriage to Nancy had finally ended...the legal demise coming years after the emotional death...and there had been nothing to prevent their being together, why hadn't Annie fought harder for him?

Instead of turning to her after Nancy had thrown him out, Jim had retreated from Annie. Putting a distance between them that had seemed insurmountable at the time. She had been hurt and bewildered by his rejection, wondering if, no longer _forbidden fruit_, her company...her bed...no longer held the same allure. She knew that while moving out had on one hand been a great relief to Jim, that on the other he had missed Ellie terribly, and mourned the dissolution of their family unit. It had been difficult for him, coping with his sense of personal failure.

Annie had wondered if Jim blamed her for the divorce, though the one time she had gotten him to talk about it, he had assured her tiredly that he didn't. And perhaps he hadn't, perhaps he had shouldered all of the guilt himself. If someone had ever pressed her to admit that there was one flaw in Jim Brass' character, Annie would have had to say that it was the way he tended to internalize things. Holding himself responsible for everyone and everything in his life. Jim never seemed able to forgive himself his own shortcomings, and that seemed to prevent him from ever believing that anyone else could forgive him for them either. And so there was always that impenetrable sadness locked somewhere deep inside him.

Then Jim had moved away from Atlantic City, transfering to another department, and Annie had known that it was really over. She'd gotten a postcard, after he had moved to Las Vegas. They had exchanged the occasional, sporadic Christmas card over the years. And following Jim's lead, Annie had thrown herself into her work, making her career the focus of her life. Subjugating that other part of herself that had blossomed for that short, precious time when Jim Brass had allowed her to love him.

She was happy though, Annie decided as her thumbs pressed into the solid flesh. She wasn't living a life of regrets, mourning missed opportunities. She had always cherished what she and Jimmy had shared, and despite the outcome wouldn't have missed any of it. She was proud of her professional accomplishments and the respect she had earned over the years. And while a part of her sometimes wondered what her life would be like if she had married...if she had had children...Annie was satisfied with the life she had now. It was natural, she thought, reunited with Jim now, especially under such emotional circumstances, to be questioning her choices, and regretting her _what might have beens._

"Annie?" Jim queried again, more forcefully. He'd spoken to her twice and she hadn't responded to him.

"What's that?" she asked, coming out of her reverie. She had been on autopilot, her fingers working of their own volition, as they eased the knots out of the detective's neck and shoulders.

"I was saying," he continued, head still bent, enjoying her ministrations, "that I'll have to check to see if any of our potential suspects is showing any physical symptoms of HIV infection. Or living with someone who is."

"Oh, right," Annie agreed, recalling what he had told her about the Videx powder that had been confirmed to be present in trace amounts on the letter Jim had received.

"That feels a lot better," Brass continued. "Thanks, Annie." It had always amazed him, just how much strength there was in her small hands. His left hand moved up to his right shoulder, to take her slim fingers and give them a grateful squeeze. He swivelled his head to the side and back and smiled up at her.

Annie fought back the compelling urge to bend her head and touch her lips against his. Jim had made it clear the he was off limits to her, and she wouldn't embarass either of them making him have to reiterate that fact. Instead, she satisfied herself with reaching her left hand to brush back the hair at his temple, hoping that her longing did not show in the soft smile that she returned to him.

_'Aw, hell,' _Catherine thought to herself with irritation, _'are _all_ men scum?' _Swift on the heels of her aggravation was the ghost of past personal injustices, and the memory of Eddie's philandering ways, and more recently, the betrayal by Chris. Her arched brows knitted together, and the corners of her pink lips turned downward, as she surveyed Jim Brass and the dark-haired woman who stood behind him. There was no denying the familiarity in the tableau...the tenderness with which Brass was holding the woman's hand, and the possessive way she was touching his face. Catherine's disappointment was a leaden lump in the pit of her stomache. She had thought better of the detective.

Catherine turned her head as Cecilia stopped adjacent to her, the writer also surveying the friendly little scene. Cecilia's interpretation was clearly the same as her own had been, and Catherine watched the spots of colour appear high on the bronzed planes of her friend's cheeks, as the unnatural brightness shone in her dark eyes. _'Damn you, Jim,' _Catherine thought with defeated resignation.

Cecilia stared at the attractive brunette who stood behind Jim, feeling stunned. She realized with cruel clarity just how little she had ever meant to the detective. It wasn't that he was too busy right now to be involved in a relationship with anyone, or that it might be dangerous for him to divide his attention...it was that he no longer desired to be in any kind of relationship with _her. _It certainly hadn't taken him long to move on and forget her. With that knowledge came a pain that clamped around her heart and threatened to stifle its beating, even as the breath was squeezed from her lungs.

Annie's fingers fell away from the side of Jim's face, as she stared across him towards the door. The detective swivelled his gaze to find Catherine and Cecilia standing just inside the room. The smile that began to curve his lips dissipated as he felt the tension in the office. Catherine's blue eyes glittered with accusation. Cecilia turned her head, eyes downcast, unwilling to look him in the face, but not before her caught her pained look of disillusionment. Brass released Annie's fingers as though they burned in his, with a quick, guilty motion.

"We didn't hear from you earlier," Catherine began, her tone as frigid as the icy, mid-winter winds that used to howl off the ocean to envelope the Jersey shore with air so sharp it would freeze the breath in a man's throat. "I had to come down to P.D. so we thought we'd check to see if you'd left yet. See if you'd made any progress." Her brow arched haughtily at the innuendo of that last statement. "I paged you when I got back in to the lab tonight, like you said, but I guess you were busy."

"I didn't get the page," Brass said with surprise. He unclipped the beeper from his belt, studying it for a moment. "Sorry, I guess I turned it off by accident." It was the truth, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears. "I, uh, got that email from Gracie," Brass remarked briskly, pushing up from his chair and moving around to the side of his desk, where he fumbled with some papers. "I've got it narrowed down to four guys who are worth looking into."

Annie felt his desertion, as Jim tried to put physical distance between them, in deference to the two women. She observed them coolly. Annie knew how it would have looked. The air of intimacy between she and Jim, even though it had been innocent. One of them must be the woman that Jim had turned her down for in Los Angeles. Which one? The stunning strawberry blonde? Or the lovely, exotic looking brunette? The blonde was clearly angry, which could be expected of a jealous partner interrupting a late night encounter that, on the surface at least, would look suspicious.

But it was the look of devestation in the dark eyes of the brunette that gave it away, Annie realized. And Jim was giving the woman a sideways glance, his features tight now with undeniable longing and concern. Surely if the woman cared about Jim, she should trust him, Annie thought inidignantly. At least wait to here his explanation. No matter how things might initially have appeared.

"Gracie's one of them, I take it?" Catherine queried and Jim nodded.

When it was evident that the flustered detective was not about to make imminent introductions, Annie stepped from behind the desk, and strode towards the two women. Fixing a smile, she extended a hand to the blonde first. "I'm Captain Annie Kramer, from L.A."

To her surprise, the brunette reacted immediately to her name. Her head swung up and she stared at Annie as though in disbelief.

"Catherine Willows," Catherine spoke automatically, as the other woman gave her a firm shake. "Vegas CSI." Catherine wondered if the woman was here on business...or if this was strictly a pleasure trip.

Annie extended her hand to the dark-haired woman who took it limply. "Cecilia Laval," she murmured. She didn't indicate whether she was CSI or PD.

Cecilia's own extremities felt like ice as she shook hands with the other woman, and her thoughts whirled. _Annie Kramer? _That was the woman that Jim had had the affair with all those years ago back in Atlantic City. The one that had been the catalyst for Nancy to end their marriage. He had made it sound as though they were no longer in touch, except for the occasional greeting card. Cecilia's stomache churned as she realized that Annie Kramer was working in Los Angeles now. It hadn't been long after his return from L.A. that Jim had told Cecilia he couldn't see her anymore. Citing that he didn't need any _distractions_ in his life right now.

Jim had undoubtedly seen Annie Kramer when he went to Los Angeles, even though he hadn't mentioned that to Cecilia. Either they were better friends than he had initially let on to Cecilia, or meeting again had rekindled what had been between them at one time. She felt hot anger flare, and she hung onto that emotion, hoping it would drown out the pain that lay underneath. Jim hadn't even had enough respect for her to be honest with her! To tell her that he was seeing someone else instead!

They had made no promises to one another, either of monogamy or longevity, so there had been no reason for him to mislead Cecilia. Obviously, he had taken the coward's way out, not wanting to deal with any potential histrionics from the woman scorned. Her humiliation was complete. She couldn't believe that she had misjudged Jim Brass so badly.

"Annie's an old friend from Jersey," Brass said. "And she worked with Joe Takei," he added as further explanation of why she was now in Vegas.

Shifting her body so that her back was partly turned towards Annie Kramer...a physical display of her censure...Catherine spoke again to Brass. "I thought you'd want to know that that bus route that runs behind the mall has a fairly direct run back through the city, and that there's a stop just half a block from the Jade Gardens motel. So, Jada Miller could easily have taken a bus to the Sunrise Centre." She paused. "Were you able to talk to Marilyn Hegel's husband?"

Brass filled Catherine in on his visit to both Hegel's widower and Marchison's mother. Cecilia met his gaze only once, and the depth of her feelings of betrayal cut him. Jim wanted to hold her, to reassure her that there was nothing between he and Annie except the vestiges of an old and dear friendship, and a comforting familiarity from the past. He was aware that Cecilia would probably think he had been intimate with Annie on his trip to Los Angeles. He hated to know how much any respect Cecilia might once have felt him for him had been eroded of late.

But Jim knew that it was best to just let the hurt and the distance stand between them. Because until their killer was caught...it might be that very distance that could one day save her life. And in the midst of all of the recent confusion and turmoil one thought had been his constant. No matter how things eventually resolved..._nothing _must happen to Cecilia. He had spent a lifetime searching for her. Waiting for her. For the one who would finally pull his tormented soul out of the cauldrons of hell and return him to himself.

"Kramer?" Catherine said suddenly, her piercing sapphire eyes on Annie. "From L.A.? There was a Detective Kramer who worked the Hales case. The murdered co-ed." The tidbit had popped unbidden to the fore of Catherine's thoughts, retrieved by her subconscious from the vault where it had been stored.

Annie could feel Jim's stare, though now it was her turn to avoid his gaze. "Yes," she answered coolly, "that was me."

Brass hadn't delved into the other serial murders at all, concentrating instead on the original Vegas killings, believing that if their man was back in Nevada, the key to finding him would be to retrace the earlier cases and find the commonality that would be key to identifying him. He had known that the Hales murder had taken place in Los Angeles. If he had given it any thought at all, it would have occured to him that even on a force as large as that one, the odds were good that Annie, as a homicide detective, might have been involved with the case in some way. Considering that the Hales case had been high profile, with FBI involvement, the chances of a Captain being involved increased exponentially.

_Did that mean that Annie was a potential target for their killer? _Brass wondered. If she had worked the Hales case, then she would have come to the bastard's attention at some point. It was conceivable that once their serial killer had disposed of all of the cops who had worked the original Holiday Murders, he might go back and target other detectives, who had worked his other murders. Brass' mouth felt dry. Annie could be in double danger, being here in Las Vegas now. If, during the course of observing Jim, the killer saw and recognized Annie, who knew how that might set him off, or what kind of tangent he might take? It might even compell him to make his move even sooner, to try to take out _two _of his law enforcement adversaries at the same time. And he might not even care anymore about contriving to make it look like an accident, but might go for the quick, sure kill.

_Why hadn't Annie told him of her connection to the case? _There had been ample opportunity over the last several hours for her to have worked that little tidbit into their conversation, Brass knew bitterly. He also knew full well why she hadn't told him. Because he would understand the increased danger her prescence here and open involvement with this case would put her in, and he would refuse her help.

Brass' anger at Annie for not divulging her personal connection to the case, was tempered by his concern for her. Once more, he felt as though things were spiralling out of control, and that there was nothing that made sense, and nowhere for him to turn. It was not so suprising when the cruel, torturous fingers again began to wend their way from the base of his skull up into his temples. Tormenting him with a renewed vengence. The respite provided by Annie's caring hands, which had begun to fade away the moment Jim had observed Cecilia's crestfallen features, was washed away completely now.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Hey David, how's it going?"

Hodges looked up in surprise, at the tall, lanky frame of Conrad Ecklie that filled the door to the lab. The daytime supervisor gave a casual, toothy grin, and Hodges even imagined that the man's salutation sounded sincere. "Well hi, Conrad!" he countered heartily. "Great, thanks. You're here awfully late."

"You know how it goes," Ecklie shrugged. "This sure isn't a nine to five job. I know you've pulled your share of double shifts. And the lab appreciates the dedication," Conrad stroked. It was Hodges who had told him about Jim Brass and Cecilia Laval being an item. He figured it was time to go fishing again. Every man should have a hobby, he thought acerbically.

Hodges chest puffed with pride. Grissom seldom seemed to notice he was there, let alone acknowledge the care, diligence and committment with which David went about his work. It was nice to feel valued once in a while.

"So, what's new?" Ecklie said, strolling into the room, maintaining an off-handed air. "Grissom got you running ragged with that serial killer case?" he asked sympathetically. "That's really something, huh?" Ecklie nodded sagely, imparting the impression that he was privy to all the details of the case. He used what little he had learned when Brass had stormed into his office the other day. "Us all thinking we had the killer in those Holiday Murders, only to find out that it was wrong guy, and the real murderer is still out there, and has killed again." Ecklie crossed his arms and shook his head solemnly.

Hodges nodded emphatically. He looked around and lowered his voice conspiratorily. "I know. I can just imagine how Captain Brass must be feeling too, though he seems outwardly cool about it."

Ecklie nodded too. "Yeah." Then his smile brightened. "I'm glad that they've brought you into the loop, David. A case as important as this one, it's pivotal to have the right people in place. It's good that Gil recognizes what an asset you are to the team."

"Well," Hodges said modestly, "I could tell he was pleased when I found that trace on the letter Captain Brass had gotten. I was the one who determined that it was Videx powder. Since I understand they eliminated Captain Brass as the source of the contamination, I guess that helps narrow down their suspects for them.

"I have to say," Hodges continued, "I am glad that it's not Captain Brass that's dealing with HIV. Bad enough to have some crazed, lunatic serial killer sending you weird, ominous letters. He doesn't need to be dealing with AIDS on top of that!"

"I know, I know," Ecklie agreed. He tried not to let his astonishment show. "I haven't actually read the letter yet," Ecklie admitted. "Maybe you can save me some time. What exactly did it say?" The supervisor was familiar of course with the original Holiday Murder letters that had taunted police in the aftermath of the murders of Miller, Hegel and Marchison. Had the letter Hodges was referring to been more of the same? Whose death was it in reference to? And how did all of this tie in with Brass' reopening of Denny Martens hit-and-run?

"It was a lot like the letter that was sent to Detective Martens," Hodges said. "You know, kind of vague, yet somehow threatening at the same time. It gave me the creeps...the whole stalker thing...and it wasn't even addressed to me. I bet Captain Brass does a lot of looking over his shoulders these days." Hodges sighed heavily and shook his head. "Actually, I'm kind of surprised that he's still on the case. Even if he's up for it mentally, I would have thought there'd be some kind of departmental policy that he would have to recuse himself. Maybe they made some exception in this case?" Hodges looked hopefully at Ecklie, thinking the other man might shed some light on the issue.

"I was wondering the same thing myself," the dayshift supervisor said, rubbing his chin reflectively. With Hodges he hardly even needed a hook and bait. This fish all but jumped in the boat for him, he thought delightedly. _And what was this about some letter Denny Martens had gotten?_

"I'm quite surprised that _you_ aren't in charge of this case, Conrad," Hodges mused. "Since you were part of the original murder investigations. And you were the lead CSI on Detective Martens' hit-and-run."

Ecklie's eyes narrowed and the good humour drained from his sharp features. Hodges knew that he had hit a nerve, and he sought desperately to change the subject. "So, how's the Missus?" David floundered.

"Fine thanks, David. She's just fine," Ecklie replied distractedly.

"Well," Hodges went on, trying to undo the damage by pointing out the positive, "it'll end up being the FBI's show anyhow, what with the subsequent murders being cross-jurisdictional. And the last time that happened, when the Feds came in...that Strip Strangler case...CSI didn't get much of the glory." Hodges tilted his head contemplatively. "You know, I would have thought they'd have taken this one over by now, really. Wonder what the hold up is." David was relieved to see that the taller man was smiling again.

Conrad Ecklie glanced at his watch, wondering how late was too late to call Sheriff Mobley at home.

_I had to chuckle at your comment after the previous chapter about expecting Cecilia to walk in on Brass and Annie, beaujolais, knowing what was in store for them. _


	44. Chapter 44

_'This ought to be fun,' _Brass grimaced inwardly, as he strode down the hall to Sheriff Mobley's office. Seeing Conrad Ecklie come slinking out, his weasly face plastered with a self-satisfied smirk, only confirmed his suspicions.

From the first slanting rays that had streamed through the slats of his bedroom blind, Brass could tell that this wasn't going to be one of his best days. The ringing of his phone not long afterwards, was just one more incident to herald that fact. Momentarily startled by the sound...on edge from too much coffee and not nearly enough sleep, and on the heels of the worst nightmare imaginable...the hand holding his razor had jerked, and the wickedly sharp blade had nicked his chin. He had stared dispassionately into the mirror, as the blood first welled out into a large bubble, then burst and dripped down the edge of his jawline to splatter into the sparkling white bowl of his bathroom sink.

Before reaching for his phone, Jim had torn a sheet of toilet paper from the roll and stuck it to the cut. If he'd remembered to plug in the darned electric shaver to recharge, he wouldn't have had to use the ancient straight razor. But that...like a lot of things lately...hadn't been the most pressing of his concerns.

Brian Mobley's voice had barked out its command. _"Brass, I want you in my office in fifteen minutes!" _Before Jim could even reply, there was a click and then the dull hiss of the dialtone. To his credit, the good sheriff had been unusually but convincingly authoritative, and Brass no more than toyed with the idea of disobeying the summons.

Whatever the sheriff wanted, it wouldn't be to go over dinner plans or discuss what they should do together on their next mutual days off. Brass had finished shaving, a job made more difficult by the constant oozing from the small but deep cut. He'd had to change shirts twice. The first got a few spots of crimson stain on the collar. Before he dressed again, Jim had rummaged through his medicine cabinet to find the clear, liquid bandaid solution which he applied liberally. The look was far more professional than the carefully folded square of tissue had been, and served to seal the cut. If only it were that easy to cauterize the pain of his self-imposed seperation from Cecilia.

Brass had been surprised, after the tension of the previous night, to get a solid three hours sleep. He wished he had forgone the nightmare-ravaged debacle though, and knew he would probably have felt better if he'd just stayed awake. He had had what had become his recurrent dream, running through the dark parking lot. Finding the dead and mutilated bodies of the three cops. Only this time, when the killer stepped into the circle of illumination, the fingers were not curled into a woman's blonde, dirty tresses, but tangled in brunette, blood encrusted waves

Driving to the station, the vivid scene had replayed on the detective's inner eye. Stopped at a red light, his hands on the steering wheel had begun to shake.

_The man raised his arm then, and the woman's head came up. Where her eyes had been, were dark sockets, crawling with fat, white maggots. More of them wriggled through her nostrils, spilling out onto the pavement, and Jim's lips curled in disgust. When she opened her mouth, further clumps of larvae tumbled from the cavern within. Like the rustle of old parchment, lips as dry as dust formed around whispered words._

_'And the wicked go free...'_

_Only it was Cecilia's voice this time. Riddled with pain and hopelessness, but still undeniably hers. It was Cecilia's once luxuriant, dark hair that framed an olive complexioned visage made unidentifiable by the squirming masses of infant blowflies. It was Cecilia's battered and desecrated body that splayed out behind the killer, and which had been dragged ignobly across the dirty tarmac._

_Jim had fallen to his knees, his arms outstretched beseechingly, trying to will away the complete and utter horror of the moment before his psyche imploded. Surely someone had just cut the heart from his chest, and his own body must be on the verge of collapsing in its final death throes, because no man could endure this kind of pain and live to rise from it. The keening that exploded from his throat rang with loss and grief. With rage and guilt._

_He had failed her._

Brass hadn't even realized...when he snapped awake to find himself sitting up in a tangle of sheets...that the pathetic, miserable sound that resonated from his walls, had originated with him. He'd ground the heels of his hands into his closed eye sockets, as though if he pressed hard enough he could blind himself to the memory of the dream.

For a moment he had wondered, with detached resignation, whether or not he was having a heart attack. Pain radiated out from the centre of a chest slick with sour sweat. Each sharp intake of air was a struggle. But it hadn't been his ticker. Perhaps a panic attack of some kind. By concentrating on willing his pulse to slow, and by taking deliberate, regular breaths, Jim had been able to calm himself.

The driver of the Porsche that idled behind him had lain on the horn, bringing him back to the present before pulling out and around the detective's sedan, giving him the obligatory finger, and letting him know in colourful terms just how angry the guy was about Jim's incompetence. Brass had touched his hand to his head in a sarcastic military salute and waved the other driver on. He didn't know where the Porsche's driver was in such a hurry to get to, but it clearly wasn't a meeting with Brian Mobley.

Brass paused now in the open doorway to the sheriff's office. Ecklie was further along the hall, standing in front of a piece of artwork, seemingly engrossed in the tranquil landscape. Hanging around like a jackal that smelled blood. Perhaps he should invite the criminalist in, so the man didn't have to stand in the hallway pretending not to eavesdrop. Brass' lips curved as he rapped on the glass pane. The sheriff and another dark-suited man were standing near Mobley's desk in conversation. Brass flashed them both a saccharin smile, and was met with tight-lipped disapproval from the sheriff and quiet assessment from the other man.

"Have a seat, Jim," Mobley ordered tersely.

Brass took an upholstered chair opposite the sheriff's desk. Both of the other men remained standing. That was supposed to put him at a psychological disadvantage, Brass knew, with the pair towering over him. "I was going to stop to pick us up some coffee and donuts, but you did say fifteen minutes, and I didn't want to be late," Jim quipped. "Just as well. You didn't tell me there would be three of us and I wouldn't have brought enough for everyone."

"This is no joke, Captain," Mobley said coldly. He crossed his arms and nodded to the other man. "This is Special Agent Arthur Fontaine. He took the red eye from Quantico, Virginia last night. I'm sure you can guess why he's here."

Brass observed the other man. Fontaine was middle-aged. Tall and leggy, with a medium build. He had a healthy shock of sandy brown hair and pale brows above unreadable grey eyes. Brass thought that the guy should try a few hands at poker while he was in Vegas. He could leave here a rich man. His expression gave away nothing.

"Good to meet you," Brass offered, extending his hand and delaying a response to the sheriff. He almost made the mistake of asking if Fontaine had had the pleasure of meeting Sarah Sidle while she was interviewing at the FBI compound. But he knew that the last thing Sarah needed was him putting in a good word for her, since he was clearly persona non grata.

Fontaine gave it a firm shake.

"I guess you got my email about our serial killer," the detective said innocently.

Mobley slapped an open palm against the top of his desk. "Cut the crap, Brass! We're not playing games here!" the sheriff roared. "You've been deliberately withholding information about a case that falls under the perview of the Federal Bureau of Investigations. There was no email. No phone call. No attempt at contact whatsoever.

"I'm not just talking about a breach of protocol either, Jim. I'm talking about possible criminal interference. In addition to your failure to alert the FBI about new information in one of their active and open investigations, you failed to recuse yourself following a clear conflict of interest. When you received that letter from the killer to your home address, and realized that you'd become a possible target, your duty was to report that to me and _immediately _ask that another detective be assigned to the case in your place."

Mobley's face was flushed with righteous anger. The sheriff's voice was commanding. Brass realized derisively that somehow, since their last little chat, Mobley seemed to actually have grown a pair.

Brass would have to do some fast talking to smooth the sheriff's ruffled feathers. "Look, Sheriff," Jim said calmly, "I take responsibility for not bringing in the Feds earlier. Things have been happening fast, but I should have got around to it. It'll be great to have some help with this," he lied. "And there's really no conflict, no problem, or any reason why I can't continue to work the case. Besides, I'm the last of the cops who worked the original Holiday Murders, and I know all the..."

"You don't get it, Brass," Mobley cut him off. "You're looking at potential legal prosecution here. You can't just thumb your nose at the justice system of these United States. You might be looking at criminal culpibility, and almost certainly the loss of your badge, pending an investigation into your conduct and handling of this case.

"As of this moment, I'm placing you on indefinite, unpaid suspension. I want your badge, your gun, your laptop, and whatever files and notes you have on the case. I don't want you anywhere near this building, or in contact with anyone who _is_ working this case. Officially or unofficially. And if you try to screw with me, and you even think a private _thought_ about this case, I'll have your ass in lock up.

"_If_ and only _if _it becomes necessary to take a statement from you during the course of this investigation, the _only _people you are cleared to speak with are Special Agent Fontaine, or one of his men. Your friend Kramer was intercepted at her hotel this morning and told that her Chief wants her back in L.A. stat. And in case you've forgotten the drill, you're not to leave Clark County until the investigation has concluded."

Jim frowned, wondering if Annie was going to take any flack for this. She had cleared her trip to Las Vegas, so he didn't think it would be a problem for her. In truth, he was relieved to know that she wasn't going to be in Vegas anymore. He had been alarmed to learn that she had worked one of their killer's unsolved cases, and had been worried about her since that revelation.

There hadn't been an opportunity to discuss that with Annie the previous night though. She had announced, not long after Catherine had remembered her connection to the Hales case, that it had been a long day and that she was going to go back to her hotel. He was well aware that she wanted to ensure she left while the other two women were still there, to forestall any kind of lecture from him.

Brass hadn't offered to see her back there safely...believing that his accompanying her might put her in greater danger, not be an element of protection. He had asked Annie what hotel she was staying at, feeling self-conscious, wondering if Catherine and Cecilia expected he'd be meeting up with her there later.

As Annie had answered him, then murmured that she was glad to have met the two women, and had gathered up her purse and moved towards the door, Cecilia had called out to her. "Detective Kramer." Annie had turned, her gaze speculative as she squared her shoulders in anticipation of a confrontation.

Cecilia had hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Catherine, anticipating a negative exchange, had shot Jim a look that clearly said, _'This is all your fault.' _

"I think you should be extra careful," the novelist said, her sultry voice deepened with concern. "It...it's possible the killer is watching this building right now, knowing Jim is here. There could be a chance...maybe...that he might see you leaving. Possibly recognize you from the California investigation." Cecilia paused. "I know you probably considered that already, but I just...thought it should be said aloud."

Jim had thought that he could kiss her for that. She was such a sweet, gentle, caring woman and it filled him both with pride that she had ever wanted him, and a profound sense of loss to know how much he had undermined her faith and trust in him lately.

Annie had looked at Cecilia consideringly. She dipped her head. "I will," she replied. Then she gave a small smile and her voice softened with genuine gratitude. "And thank you."

Mobley continued his rant. "Your buddies at CSI will be instructed that if they want to keep their jobs, they'd better not so much as wave to you if they see you on the street. And unless you want to drag their careers down with yours, you won't do anything to risk compromising them."

"You're kidding," Brass said dumbfoundedly, leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. Sure, he should have called in the Feds right away, and Gil had cautioned him about recusing himself, but Jim had never imagined the ramifications of not doing either would ever extend this far.

"Do I look like I'm kidding, Brass?" Moblely shot back hotly. "I want your badge. Now!"

The detective unclipped his shield, extracted his I.D. card from his wallet, and passed them both to the other man, noting the gleam of satisfaction in Mobley's eyes as he unconsciously rubbed the discoloured area of his chin. The sheriff was loving this, Brass knew. Would consider it payback. This wasn't just professional, it was personal.

Before Mobley could have the pleasure of asking for his gun as well, Jim pushed back his jacket, and unholstered it from the waistband of his trousers. Holding the butt, he wordlessly passed the firearm to the sheriff. He watched as Mobley made a show of emptying the ammo before he placed it in one of the drawers of his desk, locking it up. The pager followed, and then the cell phone.

"If there are any personal items you require from your office, let me know now. There are two agents there, going through the case files. Special Agent Fontaine will be using that as his office during the duration of his time here."

Brass just shook his head. Anticipating the next request, he took the keys from his front pocket, and removed the one to the door of his office. Fontaine's office now. He tossed it to the FBI man, who plucked it out of the air with catlike reflexes.

"Where's your laptop?" Mobley wanted to know.

"In the car," Brass replied levelly.

"Naturally, an agent will accompany you to the vehicle to retrieve it," the sheriff informed him.

"Naturally," Jim agreed, his lips curving in sardonic amusement. "Does my telephone access code still work, or will someone call me a cab when we're all through here?"

"You can keep the car for now," Mobley told him magnanimously, "I know it's your only vehicle."

_Because it's got a GPS tracking system, and you want to know where I am at all times, you prick, _Brass intuited. His lips formed around a stinging retort, but he clamped them down around it. It would be foolish to push his luck and end up costing himself the use of the sedan just because he wanted to get in a dig at Mobley. Like it or not, the sheriff had the upper hand here. And Brass knew who'd given it to him. Conrad _there's-no-ass-I-won't-kiss-to-get-ahead _Ecklie.

Special Agent Fontaine had stayed in the background, letting Mobley handle things the way the sheriff saw fit. He spoke to Brass now, and the detective was surprised to hear the compassion in the man's tone. "We take this threat to your life very seriously, Captain Brass." Jim noted that the Fed gave him the courtesy of his rank.

"We will apprehend the killer," Fontaine said with quiet reassurance. "Your discovery of the link between the old murders, and the deceased detectives, is the break we were looking for. It was good work." Brass watched the muscle in Mobley's clenched jaw spasm at the praise. "We've been working the other murders a long time," Fontaine explained. "Our people will have a lot to add to the investigation." There was an underlying pride in the agent's voice for his team, coupled with a message that while he appreciated the detective's work, he disapproved of Brass' handling of things all on his own, and firmly believed that had been a mistake.

There was none of the arrogant superiority though of the last FBI agent who had crossed their path...the venerable Rick Culpepper. None of the smug condescension. Brass imagined that he would have enjoyed working with Fontaine, had circumstances been different.

He also knew that if he'd had it to do over...he would have done things the same way. It was his team's original mistake that had seen the true Holiday Murderer go free to kill other women. His former co-workers...his friends...who were dead now because of it. His life on the line right now. And no matter what Sheriff Brian Mobley said or did, he couldn't alter the fact that Brass felt it was his moral and ethical responsibility to see this one through to the end.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Annie Kramer sat in the Delta Airlines lounge, waiting for her flight to board. She had already checked her small suitcase. An ample-hipped, elderly woman squeezed into the seat next to her, deeply engrossed in a Harlequin Romance novel. She smelled faintly of lavender, which reminded Annie with nostalgic fondness of her late paternal grandmother.

She sipped her coffee. Decaf. Black. She was worried about Jimmy. Wished she had had the chance to say good bye, and to ascertain that he was all right. But the Feds had descended on her after calling her to the lobby of the hotel just over ninety minutes ago. Instructing her to return to Los Angeles pronto, as per Chief McClain. She had made them wait as she'd made a quick call on her cell phone to verify things.

It didn't take long for her to understand that there had been some major breach of protocol and that P.D. was coming down hard on Brass. She had been surprised that he was still working the case, but hadn't asked about it. She also knew of the mandate that the Feds were in charge of Jenn Hales' murder and the other related killings. But that didn't mean that local agencies weren't permitted to work in conjunction with them. For all she had known, they had already been called in.

A Lieutenant Hazlitt from Internal Affairs asked her a few routine questions about Jim, then took her contact information and told her he would be in touch if he needed to follow up. She didn't think she'd said anything that would be problematic for Brass, but she agonized now over each choice of word.

She had been told not to contact the detective until the investigation was concluded. They had taken her silence as acquiescence. But if they thought she was just going to walk away and turn her back on him at the time in his life when Jimmy would need her the most, they could just go screw themselves. She would wait til this evening...tomorrow at the latest to give him a chance to get his bearings, and then call him on his home phone. Annie didn't think the situation was that high profile, and it certainly wasn't some kind of threat to national security, for anyone to have bugged their home phones or to be monitoring their personal calls.

Annie was surprised to find herself hoping that whatever that complication was between Jim and Cecilia, that they would work things out. It was obvious to her, the depth of their feelings for one another. And he needed someone here. Someone to hold him.

She had been prepared to dislike his current flame, just on principle. But Annie hadn't seen anything to find fault with. She had been very surprised to learn that Cecilia Laval was a writer, a civilian, and not with CSI or P.D. That Jim would allow her to be a part of the inner circle, that he would trust her, said a lot. He wasn't a man who gave his trust readily, he was naturally cynical and more than a little jaded. It was partly an occupational hazard and partly his life's experiences that had made him that way, Annie knew.

Cecilia seemed to be his opposite in that respect. Open and guileless. She had a delicate femininity that Annie could sense would appeal to many men. Especially a man like Jim Brass, who would undoubtedly feel protective of her. She wasn't physically petite...the novelist was actually quite tall, and her curves were generously proportioned. But she was soft-spoken, and there was a gentleness about her.

Not that she was a shrinking violet. Evidently she was talented enough to be a published writer in a highly competitive field. And from the brief conversations they had had about the case, Annie could tell that the other woman had a quick mind. Annie wouldn't have guessed her to be the jealous type, or insecure in a relationship, so she really couldn't understand Cecilia's wounded reaction to her prescence in Jim's office, no matter how compromising things might have looked.

Clearly, they were close enough that Jim had told Cecilia about her, and about their affair, because the writer had recognized her name. That had stunned Annie, and been another indication of how much the other woman meant to Brass. For him to trust Cecilia enough to allow himself to be vulnerable with her...to share with her his failures in life, and the most intimate details of his past...spoke volumes.

It didn't make sense then, that one innocent moment, even it didn't exactly appear innocent, would drive a wedge between them. There had to be some prior issue. Jimmy had indicated that there was a complication. Something else perhaps that made Cecilia question his fidelity even before she knew that the woman caressing his face was his old mistress?

Maybe their relationship had been marred by a previous indiscretion. But Annie couldn't accept that. She knew Jim Brass well enough to recognize that he was completely in love with Cecilia Laval. And if he was going to cheat on her, he would have had ample opportunity on his trip to L.A. when Annie had invited him home with her.

Annie had thought, as she was leaving last night, that Cecilia was going to make some disparaging remark, when she had called her name. Instead, the woman had expressed an honest concern about her safety. Even after thinking that Annie was moving in on Jim. Annie had been touched by the gesture, and believed it said a lot about the writer's character.

Suddenly Annie recalled the way Jim had opened up to her in his office yesterday afternoon. She could hear again the anguish that underlay his outrage.

_"But the worst thing, now that I've got this invisible bull's eyes painted on my back," Brass had growled, the anger covering his fear, his dark eyes narrowed, "is that every time I'm around another human being, I get this godawful sick feeling in the pit of my stomache, that the son-of-a-bitch is going to make his move, and something is going to go wrong. And that someone else...maybe someone I care about..." he had paused then...visualizing one face in particular perhaps? "...is going to end up in a body bag, because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time!"_

Of course! Brass was sick with dread that loving him...being anywhere near him...might cost Cecilia her life. Annie didn't know why she hadn't realized that before. It was so typically Jim. Even though there had been no innocent casualities so far in the elimination of the other detectives, he had considered that such a thing _might _happen.

And Cecilia was a civilian. She wasn't used to being in danger. Hadn't developed that sixth sense that a cop in the field would have. Jimmy must be worried sick about her. Agonizing that he might somehow inadvertently put her in danger.

And, true to form, he wouldn't have talked about that with Cecilia. He would internalize it. It would be his issue to deal with. His burden to bear. His responsibility to do whatever he felt he had to do to protect the woman he loved. Annie would bet that Brass had abruptly and wordlessly withdrawn from Cecilia. Leaving her confused and bewildered. Never giving her the opportunity to decide for herself what risks she wanted to take.

_Oh, Jimmy._

They were calling for Annie's flight to board. Was there anything she could do help the pair? she wondered as showed her ticket at the gate. Should she even interfere? What if...swayed by her input...Brass relented and allowed Cecilia close to him again? And then something tragic _did _happen. Jim would never forgive her. He would never forgive himself.

If she knew Cecilia Laval better, perhaps she could talk to her about all of this. But she didn't. And truthfully, she didn't have that kind of standing in Jim's life anymore to warrant interjecting herself into his personal life that way. All Annie could do was to continue to be there for Jim. To do whatever she could to see this case resolved as quickly as possible and their serial killer caught and brought to justice. Any other outcome was just too horrible to contemplate.

And she could keep her fingers crossed that once that happened, Jim and Cecilia could make things work between them.

Jimmy deserved that. And Annie had a feeling that Cecilia Laval did too.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"I have to say, Ms. Sidle, that I've been very impressed with your performances so far," Special Agent Erica Rubenstein complimented. Her blonde hair was fashionably short, and she wore no jewellry and little make up. The older woman sat behind the sleek, black lacquered desk, looking crisp and no nonsense in a charcoal grey pant suit.

Sarah had made an observation over the years, that had been confirmed for her since her arrival at Quantico. FBI agents did not perspire. Ever. She wasn't sure yet if it was something in the water or a physiological alteration they underwent once signing on. She was looking forward to never being hot and sweaty again though. If she made it.

Rubenstein's would be the final determination in whether or not Sarah would be accepted as a federal agent. "Your score on the physical apptitude test was one of the highest we've ever had for a female candidate. And not surprisingly, your forensics knowledge is prodigious."

Sarah, feeling underdressed in a short-sleeved, navy t-shirt and khakis, gave a thin smile, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had felt confident about her abilities in the physical and academic requirements to join the federal system. In addition to long distance jogging, Sarah worked out regularly with a light weight routine to keep herself in shape. And written tests had always been a breeze for her.

But it was the psyche exam that had worried her from the onset. Sarah had had an aversion to psychological tests ever since she had first entered California's foster care system so many years ago, following the death of her father, and the arrest of her mother for his murder. Expert after expert had attempted to probe and delve into her most private thoughts and emotions. The young Sarah had intuited that whatever information they believed they had extracted, would be used to determine her fate.

She had shut down on them, but they had kept at her, trying to trick her. Offering friendship or the unrealistic hope of being reuinted with her mother again soon. She learned that unburdening the true horrors of her soul, and sharing her innermost feelings about the tragic dysfunction that had occured behind the pleasantly blue painted front door of the Sidle residence, left them shocked and bewildered and unsure of how to handle her. And so she became adroit at discovering what it was they wanted her to say, or what answers would suffice and make them leave her alone for a time.

Sarah had predicted that the tests the FBI would employ would be the toughest she had ever faced yet. That they would contain a subtlety that would be impossible to decipher before a response was required. She didn't know how to be herself on a test like that. She felt compelled to try to analyze every question, but some were so vague, so innocuous, that she couldn't determine fast enough what the _correct_ answer would be. She was afraid that someone would see that underneath the facade of self-assurance, competency and normality, that frightened, messed up girl, still lurked.

"There's just one thing that concerns me," Rubenstein admitted, hazel eyes fixed on the brunette. _Whether I'm psychologically stable enough to work at the highest law enforcement agency in the nation, _Sarah predicted the woman would say. "Here at the Federal Bureau of Investigations, there is no room for individuality when it comes to protocol. Orders must be carried out exactly as given. Even if rules don't seem to make sense, they are in place for a reason. The security of our country...and the lives of our agents...depend on that."

Sarah tilted her head uncertainly, not sure where Rubenstein was going.

The blonde continued. "Very early this morning, several of our agents left for Las Vegas, in conjunction with an ongoing case we've been investigating for several years now. A case that is under the perview of the FBI and for which there were serious gaps in the chain of command. I don't know how casually you handle things back there in Nevada at the local law enforcement level," she said dryly, "or what your attitude is towards a rogue cowboy...or cowgirl...approach, in favour of going by the book. But there is no place for that here, and any breach of protocol will not be tolerated."

Relief flooded over Sarah. It wasn't the psyche tests then. Relief changed to chagrin. She had no idea what Rubenstein was referring to, but the first thought that came to her was, _Grissom. _What had Gil done now? Her interest was piqued as to what kind of investigation was taking place back home right now that had resulted in a late night intervention by the Feds. She hadn't heard anything, no rumours here at Quantico, nor had she seen anything on the news. She hadn't spoken to anyone back at the lab recently either.

Despite the less than stellar instances of insubordination and the incident with the unfiled DUI charge that had lead to counselling, Sarah knew that there was nothing negative in her jacket that related to her actual performance on the job. She had always followed protocol and was a stickler for it.

Sarah smiled confidently. "Whatever any of my colleagues might have done, I assure you that that has never been and never will be a problem for me."

"I didn't think so," Erica Rubenstein smiled back, "but I wanted to make sure we had an understanding." She opened Sarah's file and extracted a contract. "This is an offer of employment, Ms. Sidle. It details salary, benefits, work expectations, confidentiality agreements, etc. Read it over and if it meets with your approval, and after being with us these last few days you still think the Federal Bureau of Investigations is for you, then I look forward to working with you. Congratulations, Sarah."

"Thanks." A gap-toothed grin split Sarah's features as she took the contract. She had done it! Of the number of men and women who applied at Quantico each year, only a small percentage were ever accepted as agents. Even though she'd gotten through the interview, there was still the training. And it had already been explained to her that the job offer would be nul and void if she did not successfully complete the training. But Sarah knew she would persevere. And for the first time in a long time, she felt excited about something.

Underneath her elation, was the first stirrings of acceptance about all that she would be exchanging though, to pursue this new goal. A secure job that she was comfortable and familiar with and that she was good at. The co-workers who had become her friends. As she read over the typed words, to her dismay Sarah's eyes misted over.

Unbidden, she pictured Grissom again, sitting in the living room of her apartment, as he awkwardly tried to reach out to her. That day when Sarah had finally understood that he could never be the man that she needed him to be. The man that she deserved.

The realization didn't cause her to love him any less, however. She had given years to the dream of one day having him see her as more than a friend. As more than a competent criminalist. And emotions weren't something that could just be switched on and off. Not for her, certainly. For Gil, perhaps. If he even knew what genuine emotion was. But she wasn't going to obsess over him anymore. She could see him clearly now, without the rose-coloured glasses. The Gil Grissom of her fantasies didn't exist and he never had. But that wouldn't make saying good bye to him any easier.

Sarah wondered again, with wry sympathy, what it was Grissom had done to raise the ire of the FBI. And if he would ever take a page from the more political Conrad Ecklie's book. She sure hoped not, Sarah thought fondly. Whatever it had been, she would be back in Vegas by tomorrow night, and would undoubtedly get all of the nitty gritty details then.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

One of the FBI agents, a young black man named Carter, accompanied Brass to the lot where the sedan was parked. Respectfully, with a liberal use of _Sir_, the agent thanked him for his co-operation before taking the computer and returning to the building. All in all, Jim mused, aside from Mobley's predictably combatitive and blustering showmanship, things hadn't gone as badly as they might have.

As Brass drove out onto the main thoroughfare, he pegged the federal agents without difficulty. A black sedan with tinted windows...a vehicle that just screamed FBI...pulled out from the curb as he began to drive away. He had fully expected to see them. Undoubtedly, the Feds would implement that very method that Grissom had suggested to him earlier, about having him tailed. Thinking it the easiest and quickest way to catch their killer. Expecting they could intercept him when he made his move against Jim.

The detective gritted his teeth in frustration. This was the _wrong_ tactic to take, he felt it in his gut. Their guy wasn't stupid. He wasn't going to walk into such an obvious trap. And once he knew Brass was under surveillance, there was every likelihood that he might pull out. Change plans. Target another victim altogether. While the investigation was stalled, and precious time and resources were wasted in the wrong direction. And their best and possibly only chance at apprehension slipped quietly away.

He couldn't let that happen. But if Brass was going to stop his adversary, he would have to do it on his own. Without the help of the LVPD, or the CSI unit, or the Feds. All support had been cut out from under him. It was one against one now. He would either have to flush the killer out by uncovering his identity, or draw him out by being a human target. _'It'll be you or me, buddy,' _Brass whispered aloud, as he navigated traffic. _'One way or another...this is going to end soon.'_


	45. Chapter 45

_Thank you for continuing to read and review, and for your encouraging comments. I apologize for misspelling Sara's name throughout the last chapter! You know how it is when you get something stuck in your head, and I've never been good at proofreading. ;-)_

_I will be away for a few days over March Break, so it will probably be a week before I get a chance to write another chapter. Even if there are delays, I 'will' finish this story. It's already written in my head, I just have to transfer it to the computer. Thanks for hanging in! Take care all. Cathy._

Chapter 45

The first thing he needed to do, Brass knew, was to remove from the trunk of the sedan the other two boxes of papers that Dorothy Marchison had let him borrow. The ones that no one but he knew about. He didn't really believe that there would be anything probative in either of them, but it gave him a small measure of consolation to know that he was keeping _something _of the case for himself. And Jim figured he'd better get them out of the car and into the apartment before Mobley changed his mind about letting him keep the sedan.

Everything had happened so quickly that Brass wasn't even sure whether or not he had fully absorbed the true import of what had occured in Sheriff Mobley's office. He was in a cesspool up to his eyeballs, he realized that. He had jeopardized his career, and by the sounds of it Mobley was hell bent and determined to find something he could use to throw him in the slammer. But it was hard to work up too much angst about that right now. His job...even his freedom...none of it would mean anything if the killer succeeded at this game.

There was a pang to be without his shield anymore. His gun and his badge were more than mere inanimate objects, or tools of the trade. They were an extension of himself, as familiar and necessary as his arms or his legs. Being a cop defined who Jim Brass was. Stripped of that left him feeling naked and unsure. When he'd thrown that right hook at Mobley in the hall and dropped him, and Mobley had threatened to take his badge, Jim hadn't cared because he hadn't really _believed _the sheriff would have the guts to do it. So it had been easy to bluff. Easy to appear nonchalant about the idea of having his stripes yanked.

But now that it had actually happened, there was a sense of being lost and adrift that Brass hadn't anticipated. He could imagine that if he didn't have a much more serious and pressing issue to deal with, that the idea of never being able to be a cop again might really throw him for a loop.

The underground parking was deserted this time of the morning, and the majority of the spots were vacant, his neighbours out and about at work or otherwise busy. As Brass sat in the car, his arms crossed over the steering wheel, his features clouded in thought, he longed for the Magnum, locked in a case on the uppermost shelf of his bedroom closet.

His police issue firearm wasn't his only gun. The Magnum was a souvenir of his undercover work back in Jersey. It was registered, and Jim had a permit to carry concealed that was independent of his service revolver. He didn't see anything suspicious in the small underground parking space that serviced the dozen residents of this block of lofts though, and the odds of an assailant accosting him between here and his apartment were negligible.

But as Jim lifted the lid of the trunk and reached in for the two containers, the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end, knowing how vulnerable he was at the moment. He found himself wondering, should the perp decided to cap him right now, whether or not the department would consider his death _in the line of duty_ and spring for a funeral with all the honours. Not likely considering his suspension, especially if Brian Mobley had anything to say about it.

Upstairs, Brass set the two boxes on the dining table. Then he strode down the hall to his bedroom and retrieved the case from the closet. He sat on the edge of his bed, trying not to imagine how Cecilia had looked reclined along it. Trying to shut from his mind the memory of her warm curves nestled against his body. Trying to forget the intoxicating, slightly musky scent of her mingled with the soft florals of her perfume. Trying to steel himself against the ache of missing her.

Jim unlocked the case and for a single moment, before he opened it all the way and saw the dull sheen of metal within, he imagined finding it gone. The idea that the killer might have somehow gotten into his apartment and taken it, leaving him defenseless, caused the heart to gallop in his chest. But it was there of course, and he touched the cool, smooth, blue steeled barrel, before lifting it out. It was solid and substantial in his grip. The gun was a Ruger .44 Magnum Redhawk. The company's first true big bore double-action sixgun. Just holding it, even knowing it wasn't loaded, was comforting.

The ammunition was in a kitchen cupboard above the fridge, and Brass deftly loaded the gun. He could have done it in his sleep. He had made sure, over the years, to practice with the Magnum occasionally, and he had kept it clean and well-oiled. Twice a year, he would take it down to the indoor range at the P.D. and fire off a box of rounds. It wasn't that different than shooting the other gun, but there were subtle variations. It was like an old friend now, as Jim holstered it at his waist. And knowing it was there gave him his confidence back.

It had been Jim's intention today to drive out to see Abe Harrison, the teller who had once been arrested for domestic violence. That was out of the question now. Even if he could elude the FBI surveillance team, and even if Mobley didn't get wind of what he was up to, there was no way the potential suspect was going to answer any questions from a guy insisting that he was a cop, but without the badge or ID to back up the claim.

Brass wondered if Fontaine would also decide that the best course of action was to go pay a visit to Abe Harrison. Harrison had worked at the same branch since before the original murders. He had started as a teller and was still in that position. Possibly fitting the bright under-achiever profile? He had been arrested on a domestic abuse charge. Brass didn't see how Fontaine could possibly _not _consider Harrison worth looking into.

And if the teller was their guy, would he get spooked? Would he disappear before they had enough to arrest him on? Jim clenched his jaw, wanting to be there. Wanting to be able to look Harrison in the eye. To stand before the other man and see if there was anything in his face, his words, or his demeanour that would give the detective a clue as to whether or not Harrison was the brutal, cold-blooded serial killer they sought.

Jim didn't really begrudge Fontaine's involvement. He had worked with the Feds over the years and found them no different than any other cops. Some were incompetent assholes. Some were jerks looking to climb the career ladder over the backs of anyone who happened to be in their way. A select few were incredibly perceptive with an uncanny knack of solving even the most baffling of cases. But the majority were just hard-working stiffs, like him, giving everything they had, who through a combination of skill and luck managed to get the job done more often than not.

It wasn't because he resented outside assistance that Brass hadn't notified the FBI that he had something in their outstanding, unsolved serial murder case. He wasn't a grandstander, Jim wasn't looking for personal glory, and he didn't mind pooling talents, especially with the seemingly limitless resources that the Feds had to offer. A successful resolution to a case was the bottom line, and if he had to give a little to get that done, so be it. As he'd told Grissom a couple of years back, he'd had to kiss worse ass over the years.

The only reason Brass had resisted notifying the FBI was because he knew he'd end up getting taken off the case. Now that that concern had reached fruition and there was nothing more he could do about that, Jim wished Fontaine well and hoped to hell he'd put this thing to bed soon. He bore the agent no animosity. The detective also hoped that Fontaine would be smart enough to take advantage of the talent he had in Vegas' CSI unit, and not shuffle Catherine and Gil into the background on this.

Knowing that there wasn't much that he _could _do, and realizing that he would go crazy just sitting in his apartment wondering what _was _being done, and what progress was being made, Jim decided to go for a drive. It often cleared his head and helped him sort his thoughts, to just meander around the city and the outlying areas, aimlessly and with no destination in mind. Just going on autopilot, while the car rolled along the macadam, and some of his favourite music poured out of the speakers.

Besides, the two Federal Agents in the black Lincoln parked outside might appreciate a tour of Vegas and the surrounding countryside. And it might be fun to put them through their paces, and see just how good they were, and if he could shake them. The poor guys had nothing else to do, they were committed to keeping an eye on him. And Brass knew how boring surveillance could be. He'd done his fair share over the years. Scooping the keys out of the dish on the hall table, Jim decided that maybe they could take a little jaunt down the strip frist, so the agents could see how differently it looked in the light of day before it became bathed in the famously garish, nighttime's neon glow.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Cecilia knew immediately that something had happened. The lab was bustling. There were more bodies there than usual for an early afternoon, and serious faces that she didn't recognize. The tension was palpable, a living thing that dragged its pulsing form through the halls, and coiled heavily around her as she walked, trying to squeeze the air from her lungs. There was an electric sense of urgency. She could almost hear it humming; whizzing through the wires in the walls.

Cecilia tried to hurry, but her feet felt bogged down in quicksand. Through the glass panes, she could see Catherine's silhouette, alone in the breakroom. The blonde stood with her back to the door, facing the bank of cupboards, her hands spread against the counter as though she was using it to support her weight. Her head dipped forward, and a red-gold wing fell forward obscuring her face. There was something so...defeated...about her posture.

_Jim!_

Cecilia swallowed hard, trying to push back the rising panic, as his ruggedly handsome features swam on her mind's eye. _Dear God, something had happened to Jim! _That's why there were so many people here at the lab. That's why nothing felt right.

"Catherine?" It seemed impossible that the hollow voice that croaked out into the room was her own, but Cecilia knew it must be.

Catherine turned, her gentian blue eyes shadowed. She looked exhausted, Cecilia saw. There were dark smudges making her eyes appear more deep set. There was a tightening of her lips, pulled in on themselves in consternation. She just gazed at Cecilia across the room for a heart-stopping moment.

Cecilia felt nauseous. She couldn't seem to form her lips around the question that pounded in her veins. _What was wrong? Had something happened to Jim?_

Catherine gave a tired smile, before glancing surrepititiously beyond the writer and out into the hall. Deep in her own thoughts, she didn't seem to notice the pallour beneath Cecilia's naturally tanned skin tones. She moved closer to the other woman, inclining her head conspiratorily. When she spoke, her voice was low. "I don't know how much time we've got, so I'll talk fast."

Cecilia looked at the criminalist uncertainly.

"Jim's been suspended," she said gently. Cecilia's eyes widened with shock, even as her limbs went weak from relief. Something _had _happened to the detective, but not the unthinkable tragedy that Cecilia had been dreading. "From what I can gather, Mobley found out about everything. The letter Denny Martens got. The connection to the Holiday Murders. That the deaths of the cops were linked to those killings, and to other murders in other states. The fact that Brass got a similar letter.

"The sheriff's called in the FBI. And Brass is being investigated by I.A. Internal Affairs," Catherine clarified. "We've all been told that we're not to have any contact with him whatsoever, pending the outcome of that investigation, and under no circumstances are we to discuss further details of the case with Jim. Or we're looking at suspension as well." Catherine shook her head in disgust.

Cecilia's thoughts reeled.

"I got a page just after nine thirty this morning to come in," the strawberry blonde continued. "I figured I'd see what it was all about, before waking you."

Cecilia knew that the other woman wouldn't have gotten more than an hour of sleep at the most, and frowned sympathetically.

Catherine's eyes surveyed the halls again. "The Feds are running this show now."

When Catherine had arrived at the lab, she had been marshalled into the conference room by a waiting Grissom. Conrad Ecklie was already there, fighting to keep from grinning, and looking like he'd just won the lottery. Seated next to him was Sophia Curtis, and another dayshift criminalist, Jason Norton. Sheriff Mobley stood at the head of the big table, and on his left was a man that Catherine didn't recognize, but who Mobley would soon introduce as Special Agent Arthur Fontaine.

There were two other men, and one woman, in crisp, dark suits. Piled neatly on the table were boxes of case files labelled with the names of the four women murdered in the years since Todd Juneau had been killed in the supermarket parking lot, and Las Vegas P.D. had pronounced the Holiday Murder cases closed.

Apparently, she had been the last to arrive, and the sheriff wasted no time before launching into his big speech. By the time he was done, the case had been turned upside down and inside out for Catherine. She had learned that Brass had been suspended without pay. She had listened to the strict guidelines that would curb her having any contact with Jim until, it seemed, both the case and the investigation into his conduct, had been resolved.

The FBI was unequivocably in charge of the entire direction of the investigation and the CSI unit was to consider themselves in a support role. Grissom was replaced as head of the CSI team, in favour of Ecklie. Mobley quickly mumbled something about Conrad's having been involved with the original Holiday Murders, and with Detective Martens' hit-and-run, and that with his experience and insight, the sheriff felt it prudent to put Ecklie in charge of the forensics angle of the investigation. Gil had only raised a brow before shrugging his shoulders.

Catherine had crossed her arms over her chest and looked dumbfoundedly at Grissom, irritated that he didn't even bother to raise an objection, no matter how futile such a gesture might have been. Sure, Ecklie had been involved in those original investigations, but he had also been the one to bury forensic evidence that might have indicated that Juneau was either not the killer, or had not been working alone. And he had ruled Denny Martens' death an accident and had not seen any need to dig further on that.

As far as Catherine was concerned, based on Conrad Ecklie's performance, he didn't deserve to be the lead CSI on the case. She suspected that it was a reward for ratting out Brass, and she had looked daggers at the smug criminalist as he had made a simpering comment about how dayshift and graveyard were going to work this one as a team and that it didn't really matter who was in charge. Catherine was worried that it might matter very much. That it was a choice that could prove _fatal._

"Between day and nightshifts, we'll be working this 'round the clock. Mobley replaced Grissom with Ecklie as lead CSI. Swingshift gets left to deal with everything else, so they'll be doing a lot of prioritizing." Catherine frowned. "And there's one more thing." She hesistated, clearly uncomfortable. "I'm not supposed to say anything about this case to you at all. Mobley is having you re-assigned to swingshift."

"He doesn't want me getting in the way," Cecilia remarked quietly. What would she do now? Even though whatever connection she had thought she had had with Jim Brass had proven to be untenable, she couldn't just turn off her feelings. She still cared about him, and was worried sick that he was the next intended target of a serial killer. The novelist had found a measure of comfort in being able to follow the progress of the investigation. Now she wouldn't even have that.

Catherine thought Mobley's decision was more than that. That it was personal. But all she had was a gut feeling. Either way, Cecilia was not being permitted to shadow nightshift anymore. "I know how worried you are about Brass though, and how close you two were," Catherine said sympathetically. "And I know I can trust you. So I'm going to tell you this." Again the criminalist looked around furitively.

Catherine spoke with an urgency. "The Feds think there may be something to the bank connection we were working. They're strongly pursuing that angle. The first vic, who was killed two years after the Vegas murders, Claire Delsordo, was a teller at a Wells Fargo in Chicago. Harrison, the teller with the domestic assault charge against him, went to college in Washington state for a year before dropping out. The next two vics were killed in Spokane and Tacoma. Harrison might have friends there still, or some other reason to go back for a visit. They're bringing him in for questioning. O'Reilly is going to page me when the guy's at the station." She reached out to touch Cecilia's shoulder. "Fingers crossed that this could be our man."

Cecilia appreciated being taken into Catherine's confidence and understood that by sharing what she had, the criminalist was taking an enormous risk. "Thanks, Catherine," she said sincerely.

"The upside to this is that the FBI can contribute a lot of manpower to the investigation," Catherine explained. "And they have a lot of other resources at their disposal. They've been working the other murders for a while, and so it saves us a lot of time, having all of those notes and files...a suspect profile...already compiled."

Cecilia nodded her understanding.

"One more thing," Catherine concluded. "There is an FBI surveillance team watching Jim right now. There will be three shifts, around the clock. The Feds think they'll be able to intercept if the killer makes a move against him. He should be safe, at least."

Cecilia sensed that somehow Catherine didn't quite believe that final pronouncement. "I appreciate everything," the writer told her. "And good luck."

Catherine nodded. "Things will be crazy here for the next while. But I'll be in touch. And we'll probably bump elbows in the halls over the next few days." The knowing sapphire eyes examined the other woman. "I've got to get back now. Are you okay?"

Cecilia wasn't really sure. She felt as though she'd been swept into a whirling vortex, tumbling uncertainly but inexorably towards the outstretched ams of destiny. She could not have foreseen or even imagined any of this, when she had originally given her notice at the school. When she'd boarded that plane for Las Vegas...could it really be such an incredibly short time ago?...Cecilia's expectations had been so much different than what her reality had turned out to be.

She had wondered about the reception she would get from the forensic scientists she would be permitted to follow in their working days. Whether or not they would resent her. She had looked forward to being on the inside, her research yielding the kinds of details that would add a gritty realism to her novel. She had thought that it would be an undeniably unique and interesting experience, and likely an emotional one at times, due to the nature of their profession.

Cecilia wouldn't have anticipated pairing up with someone like Catherine. A woman she would relate to. One that she would grow to respect and admire. Someone that she would befriend. She would never have imagined finding romance in Nevada either. More than that, Cecilia had fallen in love. She hadn't known, when she'd locked up her townhouse, and put her suitcases in the trunk of the taxi, that at the other end of the journey was the man she was destined to lose her heart to.

Cecilia had thought this would be a clinical excercise. An intellectual journey. But it had come to be the most emotionally invested experience of her life. Her novel wasn't even the focus of her thoughts anymore, and Cecilia realized it hadn't been for quite some time.

"I'm all right," she responded to Catherine at length, mustering a smile. "You be careful," she added the caution.

Impulsively, Catherine reached to hug Cecilia. "Keep positive," she spoke softly against the other woman's ear.

"Willows!" Mobley's strident voice interrupted from outside the breakroom.

Catherine eased away from Cecilia and faced the sheriff, her chin jutting defiantly. Next to Mobley stood Fontaine, who was looking at her with an expression that Catherine was unable to decipher. "Yes, Sheriff," she answered.

"I thought we had an understanding," Mobley said pointedly, his light blue eyes shifting to Cecilia. His irritation was evident.

"Oh, we do," Catherine agreed coolly.

"Then just what do you think you're doing?" the sheriff demanded.

"Catherine was explaining that I'm not going to be following nightshift anymore," Cecilia told him.

"Or did you expect me to just walk rudely past her without a word, and pretend I didn't know her?" Catherine challenged bitterly.

"Fine," the sheriff said gruffly. "We don't have time for this. Any of us. Catherine, I suggest you go help Grissom and see how he's making out." There was clear dismissal in his tone. Catherine squared her shoulders and set off down the hall.

Cecilia waited calmly for whatever the sheriff would have to say to her.

"I know you're aware that we've had some breaks in a very major case recently. It's my contention that Detective Brass committed a variety of serious errors in the investigation of that case, and he has been removed indefinitely pending a review of his actions."

There was a gleam of satisfaction in the sheriff's eyes that made Cecilia want to bring her knee up sharply into his groin, even though she was a non-violent person who had never struck another human being in her adult life. She hadn't liked Sheriff Brian Mobley from the moment she had met him. His pompous and unwelcomed attentions at the Kellerman's dinner party had further cemented her distaste for him. Knowing that he was taking pleasure in making Jim Brass' life even more difficult than it was, made her heartsick.

Even if Mobley had a personal dislike of the detective for some reason, certainly he would have to admit what a tremendous professional asset the Captain was to the force. The plaques and citations on the wall of Jim's office hadn't come from the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.

"Because this murder case is very sensitive, and because once we bring the culprit to justice there will undoubtedly be a very high profile court case...meaning that every move this office makes will be under a microscope...it's imperative that we don't do anything to compromise our position or give some defense attorney reason to question a single aspect of this investigation.

"Therefore, I believe it's in the best interests of everyone, Ms. Laval, that only those who have official clearance be involved directly, or indirectly. Furthermore, because of the nature of your...friendship...with Detective Brass, I wouldn't want to put you in a position where there is any chance that your...loyalties...might feel unfairly divided."

Cecilia didn't think that Mobley had even tried to hide his sneer.

The sheriff continued. "I've run all of this by Mayor Kellerman, and he's spoken with Special Agent Fontaine as well. And the Mayor has decided to defer to my judgement concerning this matter." Mobley was telling Cecilia that if she had any thoughts of trying to use whatever influence she might have with the mayor or his wife, that he had already cut her off at the pass.

Cecilia would never have done that, however. She respected her position as an outsider here, and appreciated all of the co-operation she had received so far. And Brian Mobley was the elected sheriff of the people in Clark County. She didn't feel any sort of entitlement to be here and it would never have occured to her to try to go around any directive that might come from P.D. "Of course," he went on, "the LVPD isn't going to renege on its earlier invitation for you to be involved with one of our CSI units, to assist with your research for your book. I'm sure it won't really matter too much _which _team you follow. And I think that right now, it makes more sense for you to spend time with swingshift.

"Although, perhaps you've already gotten enough information and might feel you just want to conclude your time here with us in Las Vegas," Mobley suggested. His smile mocked her.

"It's been an honour and a privilege to work with law enforcement personnel of the quality and calibre of Captain Brass, Catherine Willows and Gil Grissom," Cecilia shot back. "I value having had the opportunity to observe them." She had the satisfaction of watching Mobley colour slightly as he picked up on her subtle emphasis of the word _them. _"I don't think I'm quite ready to wrap things up just yet though. I look forward to spending some time with Ms. Chang and the swingshift." Cecilia stared back at the sheriff obstinately.

"I'm just going to grab a coffee, Sheriff, and I'll meet you back in the conference room," Fontaine spoke then with quiet authority, putting an end to the discussion. Mobley nodded curtly and left the room without another word.

Cecilia felt the anger surge through her blood. Sheriff Brian Mobley was a despicable person. She wondered how Jim was dealing with all of this. Cecilia stood there, trying to calm herself, while behind her the FBI agent busied himself at the counter next to the coffee maker.

"Would you like a coffee, Ma'am?" Fontaine asked quietly, pausing before adding sugar to his cup.

Arthur Fontaine always hated this part of the job. Working in conjunction with local police agencies always carried elements of personal and professional conflicts that he could neither understand, nor cared to get involved in. There were often jealousies and rivalries. Situations that predated the arrival of the FBI by years. Undercurrents of tension. Invisible, territorial lines that more often than not he and his team would unwittingly stumble over. He didn't want to be put in the middle, or to have to choose sides, or witness division at a time when it was imperative for people to work together.

He had been more than a little surprised to find that there was a civilian among the CSI unit, and somewhat distressed to learn that she had been given almost open access to the current investigation. Fontaine didn't want to presume negative anything about the writer, but the risk of leaks, or some kind of contamination of evidence or breaking of procedure, concerned him on behalf of the victims. He was their voice, and he owed it to them to do everything he could to find the beast who had murdered them, and to keep him from killing again.

Fontaine was astounded to discover that the cases he and his fellow agents had been working for the last several years were tied to a former case here in Las Vegas, Nevada. One that those involved had believed to have been solved. He was dismayed and sickened to learn that it was believed that three of the original investigating officers had been murdered by the perpetrator, their deaths contrived to appear as accidents. While the agent was perturbed to know that the life of another detective was now threatened, he also believed that this might be the break that they had been looking for. Captain Jim Brass might be the gateway to the adversary who had thus far evaded them.

Cecilia turned at the sound of his voice. The man, he must be one of the FBI agents, had a quiet dignity about him. He was quite tall, taller even than Warrick Brown, she judged. He had a pleasant, clean-shaven face, and thick but short-cropped sandy hair. His brows were significantly lighter, looking sunbleached. Cecilia wondered absently if he spent a lot of time out in the sun, wearing a cap that kept his hair darker than his exposed brows. Beneath them were clear, grey eyes. Eyes might be the window to the soul for most people, but not for this man, she realized.

Cecilia regarded him for a moment, then nodded her head. "Thank you. Just cream. There's the real stuff in the fridge." She watched as the FBI man rummaged in the small refrigerator, and then poured the cream into one of the styrofoam cups, before adding the coffee. He gave it a quick stir. Cecilia walked to where he was, and accepted the hot brew.

"I'm Special Agent Art Fontaine," he introduced himself.

"Cecilia Laval," she countered.

According to Mobley, the writer and Captain Brass had a romantic involvement. Fontaine knew sympathetically that this whole ordeal must be difficult for her. Not only was Brass' life threatened, but he was under suspension and things didn't look good for him on a professional plane. Though his meeting with the detective that morning had been brief, there had been something about the other man that had commanded respect. Fontaine had later observed all of the awards that covered the walls of the Captain's office, and which lined his shelves. Curious, the agent had looked at Brass' file, and he had been impressed by the number of commendations.

He couldn't know what lay behind the animosity between the sheriff and his subordinate, and in truth Fontaine didn't want to know. He was here to do his job, and Mobley was the senior liason and that was all that mattered. But there was an arrogance to the sheriff, and a sense of malicious enjoyment in the predicaments of others that Fontaine found it hard to get past. He discovered himself feeling sympathetic towards the detective. Certainly, grave errors had been made, and breaches of protocol that could not be excused or tolerated. But Fontaine expected that if he thought about it too deeply, he could understand why the Captain had behaved the way he had, and made the decisions he did.

"I just wanted you to know that there was nothing personal in my advising Mayor Kellerman that civilian involvement in this case, in any capacity, would be deemed unacceptable by the FBI," Fontaine told her. "I don't know if you can understand why that mandate was necessary. But this investigation falls under my purview, and it's what I think is best for the potential success of our efforts." Fontaine's features were an inscrutable mask. It was only in his voice that Cecilia heard his compassion.

Cecilia was surprised. The agent didn't owe her any explanations. "I understand," she admitted. "And I appreciate what you've said."

Fontaine's grey eyes studied her. "I know it's none of my business, and I have no legal authority to control your movements outside of this lab. Not at this point in time." Apparently, Cecilia thought, that was subject to change. "But even though we are instituting...precautions...there is still an element of danger to Captain Brass. It's my opinion...unofficially...that it might be better if for the next little while you restricted any interactions with him. For your own safety."

People were aware that she had been romantically involved with Jim. Cecilia could have told the agent that that was no longer a concern. That the detective had previously made it abundantly clear that he no longer desired any kind of interactions with her at all. But that was her own private humiliation. She only nodded.

Fontaine saw the sorrow and worry in the woman's lovely, brown velvet eyes. "We're doing everything possible to try to identify and capture the assailant. And Captain Brass' safety is paramount in our endeaours right now." He couldn't give any guarantees, there never were any, but the agent wanted Cecilia to know that he took the threat to the detective's life seriously and had pledged to try to protect him.

"Thank you," Cecilia replied, her voice strained with emotion. Hearing him say the words, while intended to give reassurance, only brought home the enormity of the situation.

"Take care, Ma'am," Fontaine told her. Then he left her alone in the room.

At least, Cecilia thought, Special Agent Fontaine was in charge of things, and not Sheriff Mobley or Conrad Ecklie. Even though she had only just met him, he inspired more confidence than the other men combined.

It was so quiet, that Cecilia could hear the second hand of the wall clock ticking off the passing of each moment. She wanted to rip the clock from the wall, and wished she was endowed with magical powers to reverse time. She wanted to go back to that span of innocence, before the disillusionment and the fear. Back to Jim's strong arms and the warmth of his bed and the deep, mellifluous sounds of his voice as he opened himself up to her in the dark. Back to the feelings of security and caring that his embrace had evoked. Back to the blissful ignorance of believing Jim truly cared for her. Even if none of it had been real, it had been the most amazing interval of her life.

Cecilia knew that her time with the forensics unit was drawing to a close. And as the sheriff had intimated, she really did have enough now that she could begin work on her book. But she wasn't going to leave Las Vegas just yet. Not until this case had been settled. Not until she knew that Jim's life was no longer in danger. Only then could Cecilia begin to pick up the pieces of her broken heart and try to move on.


	46. Chapter 46

_Just a short one. Thanks so much for your continued interest! Cathy._

Chapter 46

Brass had been impressed with whoever was driving the Lincoln. The guy was no novice at surveillance. He had maintained a good distance, and if Jim hadn't known to watch for him, he might not have known the guy was there. The driver didn't make any sudden or jerky moves, even when the detective changed lanes or directions suddenly. He was cool and controlled.

Brass figured he could have shaken him, if he'd really wanted to, but that would have involved some maneouvers that had an element of danger to the drivers of other vehicles around them. And he couldn't justify the risk. Not to mention that they could just track him through his sedan's GPS system even if they lost visual confirmation of his whereabouts. So, Brass had just put the Feds out of his mind, and navigated the streets of Las Vegas before ending up on I-15, setting the cruise control, and turning his thoughts inward.

Those thoughts had proved to be fruitful. It was with some excitement that Jim had finally turned the car around and driven straight back to his loft. One thing that had bothered him from the beginning, back to the time of the original murders, had been the lack of eye witnesses. Of course, eye witnesses were notoriuosly unreliable, but sometimes the cops could catch a break. Other than Carina Horwath, the young blonde from the coffee shop who had had the misfortune of witnessing Denny Martens' hit-and-run, there hadn't been a single person who had come forward to say they had noticed anything pertaining to any of the murders, however seemingly small and insignificant.

Because it had been impossible for Horwath to ID the driver of the stolen Durango that had deliberately plowed into Denny, and couldn't even have said the gender of the person driving, she had been unable to give Jim anything useful.

While he was out driving around, thinking about the deaths of Martens, Keeth and Takei, and wondering how the killer had been able to get at them, it had occured to Brass that maybe, just maybe, they _might_ have an eyewitness after all.

Brass knew that Elliott Keeth's death had not been the careless smoking accident that it had initially appeared to be. Somehow, the killer had overpowered Keeth and staged the scene. Keeth had been a huge bear of a man, incredibly strong, and unless their serial murderer was of a similar physique and strength, the idea of his just taking down Keeth in hand-to-hand combat was highly improbable.

But, if the killer had subdued Elliott with drugs, rendering him powerless, it wouldn't matter how brawny he was...or wasn't. Brass didn't believe that the combination of sleeping pills and alcohol in Keeth's system had been intentional. Therefore, he went back to the theory that the killer had drugged Elliott. It made sense to Brass that the perpetrator could have slipped the pills into Keeth's whiskey bottle. But the bottle Jim had retrieved from the scene had been free of contaminants.

Was it too much of a stretch though...assuming Keeth had been drugged in such a fashion...that when his assailant came back to start the fire, he might have taken the bottle with him? Removing the evidence? Planting another instead, in case a forensics investigator did decide to test it? Brass had been intrigued at the thought.

But for all of this to have happened, somehow the killer had to have gotten into Keeth's apartment in the first place. Brass couldn't see Elliott just inviting a stranger into his home to tamper with his pills and alcohol, and then re-admitting him later to kill him. The detective had considered then those individuals that people often give open access to without a second thought.

Like cable guys. That had happened to Nick Stokes, when the guy who had installed his cable became fixated on the criminalist, leading to murder and ending with a terrifying take down in Stokes' home. Then there were phone guys. Plumbers and electricians. In an apartment complex, there would be a maintenance guy. Perhaps their kller had posed as any one of them, in an elaborate masquerade.

Brass had remembered Elliott Keeth's eldery neighbour at the end of the hall. Gladys. The one who had peeked out from behind her door and told Jim and Catherine that they couldn't enter the damaged apartment.

_"You don't look like burglars," the woman had said at length._

_"No Ma'am," Jim had agreed genially. "We're not burglars."_

_"Gladys," she told him. "We had a burglar here," she continued. She pushed the door the remainder of the way open, the guarded look slipping from her worn features, seeming to decide that the pair were harmless. Jim guessed her to be in her eighties, stooped from osteoporosis. She wore a thin, cotton housecoat that she pulled tighter around a shapeless dress._

_"We're not going to be long," Jim had reassured her. "You have a good day, Ma'am." He'd turned his attention away from her, readying to duck under the caution tape and to enter Keeth's apartment._

_"Mr. Keeth, he was the one got robbed," she informed them._

_Brass had felt the hair stand up at the back of his neck. He stopped before he could step into the apartment. "When was this?" he had asked, trying to keep his tone casual, though all of his senses were instantly alert, his thoughts racing as fast as his pulse._

_"Few weeks. Month maybe. Robbing a police officer! I swear I don't know what this world is coming to."_

_"I agree, Ma'am. Gladys," he amended. Brass had wondered if anything had been taken. Wondered if Keeth had filed a police report or an insurance claim. "Did anyone see the burglar? Were any other apartments broken into?"_

_"Not that I know of," she replied._

_"Thanks. You take care." This time he had pushed open the door and entered Elliott Keeth's apartment._

At that point, Brass hadn't even had a single thing, save his intuition, to indicate that there was foul play in either Denny Martens' or Elliott Keeth's deaths. When Gladys had first mentioned a burglary, Jim had wondered if that might somehow be related to Keeth's death. The fact that it had been a month prior, and the reality that the whiskey bottle had turned up negative for pharmaceutical residue, had caused Brass to believe at the time that the incident did not have anything to do with later events after all.

But what if it _did_ have something to do with all of this? What if the killer had broken into Keeth's apartment beforehand, to better acquaint himself with the man? The eldery woman had said that the burglary had occured about a month before the fire that had claimed Keeth's life. Annie had told him that the letter Joe Takei had received, the one that had disquieted him enough to show his partner, had shown up about a month before Takei strangled to death, an apparent victim of dangerous autoerotic play.

Their killer had put a lot of thought and planning into the deaths...the murders...of each of the detectives. Was it just a coincidence that a month or so before he was killed, Elliott Keeth had had a burglary? And Gladys had told Brass and Catherine that to the best of her knowledge, Keeth's apartment had been the only unit to have a break-in.

In retrospect, Brass figured that if there had been other incidents in the building, that Gladys would have known. He imagined that she was one of those people who liked to keep tabs on things. Who took a great interest in the goings on around her. He wouldn't be surprised if she spent a great deal of time with her eye to the peephole, every time she heard a door open along the corridor, or every time the elevator stopped on that floor.

Gladys hadn't admitted to seeing anyone enter Keeth's apartment to rob it. But Jim remembered how quickly the old woman had cracked open her door when he and Catherine had arrived outside Elliott's apartment. There was a good chance, he thought, that perhaps she _had_ seen something. Even though she hadn't been willing to divulge that to he and Catherine at the time.

Brass looked up Dana Asmundsen's number at work and called her at her office in Laughlin. Thankfully, time seemed to be healing her wounds, and Elliott Keeth's former girlfriend...significant other, Keeth had amended with a chuckle that afternoon at Coopers...sounded stronger and more self-assured than she had when they had last spoken. Jim hated to stir up her feelings of loss, but he had to speak with her. He identified himself and asked if she had a few moments to talk.

She answered that she did. "Detective Brass, I'm sorry that I haven't gotten back to you before now," Dana apologized. "I did go through most of Elliott's things, but there wasn't any letter like the one that you had asked about. I'm afraid I can't help you with that." She thought, naturally, that that was why he was calling. No longer gripped in the immediate aftermath of grief, she was more curious now about the detective's early inquiries than she had been at the time.

"What was it you were looking for exactly, and why was it that you wanted to know about a letter?" she asked now. At the time of his original call, Brass had given her a vague explanation that he was investigating a case in Vegas involving an old colleague of Keeth's.

This was the hard part. Trying to sidestep questions that in his heart Jim felt she had a right to ask, but knew that he couldn't answer just yet. Instead, he brushed the query aside and asked a question of his own. "That's okay, I'm not really calling about that. I was hoping for some information though, if you don't mind, about a break and enter that occured not long before Elliott's...accident." Brass found it hard to use the innocuous sounding word, for what he knew now was a murder.

There was a long pause on the other end. "I don't understand," Dana Asmundsen spoke slowly. "I thought you were with the Las Vegas police department. Wouldn't this be out of your jurisdiction? It was nothing more than a petty theft anyways. I wouldn't think the police would bother trying to track down and apprehend the culprit. Elliott didn't even make an insurance report, it wasn't worth the deductible and the black mark of having filed a claim. Why are you asking about that now, Detective?" Her tone was polite but firm.

"I'm following a lead on something else, Ms. Asmundsen," he allowed cautiously. "That's really all that I can say right now."

"Does this have something to do with Elliott's accident?" she challenged. "Do you have reason to think his death was anything _but _an accident?" There was a tension in her voice now, and he could hear the slight raise in pitch.

Brass knew his answering silence, while his mind sought the right words to say, would negate any claims he might make to the contrary. "I'm investigating an old case of Elliott's and I'm following a hunch that the break-in might somehow be related to that case." It wasn't a lie. But the deliberate deception left a bad taste in Jim's mouth.

He had been honest with Amy Martens about his suspicions and the extent of his investigation. But Brass knew Amy, she had been a detective's wife, and he felt he could trust her not to jeopardize the case. Also, she had been the one to bring him the letter from Denny's safe. The letter that had been key to everything that had followed. Jim had felt he owed something to Denny's widow. It wasn't that he didn't trust Dana Asmundsen, he simply didn't know her. Nor was it that he didn't believe she had a right to know that Elliott Keeth had been murdered. When the time was right, he would tell her in person. But for now, Brass believed it was best for everyone if he didn't disclose too much.

Silence again on the other end, while Dana Asmundsen mulled that over. Finally, she seemed to accept his subterfuge. Or at least she decided that she wasn't going to get anything more out of him, and had made up her mind to co-operate regardless. "What did you want to know?" she asked crisply. "I don't know what I can tell you, that wasn't on the police report."

Except that Brass hadn't read that report, and didn't have time now to try to get a copy. Assuming he even could access one in his current state of suspension. "Was it Elliott who discovered there had been a break-in?" Jim asked.

"Yes. He was on days. He came home, and noticed that the door was unlocked. He went inside, and there was a bit of a mess. Like someone had tossed the place, quickly, looking for valuables. There was no one there anymore, they were long gone. He called someone out to dust for prints, but they didn't turn up anything. There wasn't much taken. A portable DVD player. He didn't have a home computer, just the laptop, and he had that with him at work." She spoke as though by rote.

Dana continued. "Some movies. A bit of cash, less than one hundred dollars. A case of silverware that his Grandmother Keeth had left him." She sounded sad for a moment. "Elliott felt really bad about the silverware. He searched local pawnshops for weeks, hoping he might get it back. That was the only thing that he really felt badly about. It was irreplacable because of the sentimental value. It never did turn up."

Brass wondered if the items had been taken just for show, to make it look like an ordinary burglary. And if that was the case, if they hadn't all ended up in a dumpster somewhere.

"He didn't say anything about any files or anything work related being missing," she added. "Elliott didn't seem to think it was connected to his job, or any case he was working, or that it was anything more than just a simple break-in. Probably some junkie looking for something he could sell for drug money."

"Thanks, I appreciate your going over things with me," Jim told her. "Listen, after the break-in, did Elliott talk to the landlord about replacing the lock?"

"No, I don't think so," Dana said hesitantly. "It was scratched up, but still functional. He didn't think the person would be back. Even after being a victim of crime himself, Elliott still had this air of invincibility," she said, her voice a mixture of consternation and fondness. "I don't think he could really believe that it had happened to _him _in the first place."

On the other end of the line, Jim smiled. He could just imagine Keeth's disbelief and indignation. Brass had noticed over the years that guys in law enforcement seemed to have one of two attitudes towards crime and the world at large. Either they were exceptionally security conscious...going to scrupulous lengths to protect themselves and their families...or they were quite lax. Like Keeth, they had the mindset that there were three distinct groups of people...criminals, cops, and victims. And they were not interchangeable. Jim himself was one of the few who seemed to reach a happy medium. Probably because after his experiences in New Jersey, he knew how easily the lines between the groups could blur.

Having broken into Keeth's apartment once and finding it an easy enough task, if no one had taken steps to better fortify the unit, it was plausible that if the petty crook had actually been their serial killer, that he might have come back again after having familiarized himself with entry and the layout of the unit. The purpose of the second visit much more nefarious than the first.

What if the first trip to Keeth's apartment hadn't really been about committing burglary at all, but geared to learning more about Keeth? A quick look through a medicine cabinet or a bedside table might have uncovered the fact that Elliott was taking a prescription sleep aid. That he kept a stock of whiskey in the apartment. That he smoked inside his home. Not all smokers did these days, Jim knew. It might have set the wheels in motion. Given the killer an idea on how to stage an accidental death that no one would question.

"I know what you mean," Jim said. "A lot of cops are like that. Thanks again for your time, Ms. Asmundsen." They said their goodbyes.

Less than five minutes later, Brass' phone rang. It was Dana Asmundsen. "Call display," she explained briefly at his surprise. "Look," she began perfunctorily, "between the questions about the mysterious letter, and asking about the break-in at his apartment, I believe you think that there's something off about Elliott's death. I don't think this has anything to do with a supposed old case of his. I know you're not going to admit that. But if there _is_ more to it...if it wasn't an accident...I want you to find that out.

"And I just remembered something. We didn't connect it with the break-in originally, and it might have nothing to do with that at all. But about two weeks later, a couple of weeks before his death, Elliott noticed that his spare key was missing. He kept it on a hook in the kitchen. He asked me if I'd lost mine and taken it, or seen it at all, but I hadn't. We figured it had just gotten misplaced, or knocked off the wall and under the stove or something. It was no big deal." She cleared her throat. "But in light of all of your questions...I thought you might want to know."

After the call, Brass was more convinced than ever that the burglary at Keeth's apartment had not been a random occurence. He felt that it was imperative that he talk to Gladys. In person. However slim the odds that she might have seen the thief who had broken into Elliott's apartment, it was his only lead right now. Jim couldn't show up on Abe Harrison's doorstep to question him. But perhaps he could find a way to see Gladys.

She had seemed to accept Brass' self-identification as a police officer readily enough the day of Keeth's funeral, when he and Catherine had stood in the hall outside the burned unit. She hadn't asked to see a badge then. Perhaps, having established himself as a cop already, Gladys would speak with him without requiring further proof.

Even if the elderly woman hadn't seen anything, at least Jim would be doing _something. _The problem now though, was how to get to her. His FBI shadows would certainly follow him out to Laughlin. Even if they didn't think there was anything suspicious about his taking a two hour jaunt to go visit an old woman, the moment they reported back on what his destination had been, someone would quickly match the building's address to the one where Elliott Keeth had resided. Even Mobley would put two and two together and know that Brass was still working the case. Even if the sheriff wasn't sure what angle the detective was pursuing. And he might well have Jim picked up and unceremoniously booked for obstruction of justice.

In theory, Jim could disable the GPS system, and lose the surveillance team. But those acts would certainly be enough to bring him to the irascible sheriff's attention. And then when Brass eventually did come home, no protestations of innocence would save him from the combined wrath of the LVPD and the FBI. He would need to give the situation some thought.

The midafternoon sun was a molten ball in the pale, almost colourless sky. As he emerged from the dark cool of the underground, and the hot rays slanted through the car's front windshield, Jim was already regretting the shirt and tie. And knew that when the time came he would be loathe to slip into the lined jacket. But he couldn't show up on Gladys' doorstep in a golf shirt and shorts, no matter how much of a potentially record-breaking heatwave this was. Looking professional might be the key to even getting her to talk with him.

Selfishly, Jim hoped that she hadn't been to any of those public awareness seminars for seniors recently, that focused on encouraging trusting older citizens to be more aware of potential dangers and scams, and which taught them about not allowing strangers into their homes, or taking people at face value. Brass had given such talks himself. Ones that made a point of reminding seniors to ask for identification from anyone claiming to be a police officer, emergency personnel, or a utility worker. Letting them know that it was not only all right to call for confirmation before allowing a stranger into their home, but that such action should be routine.

He hoped that Gladys would take none of those steps. And then when this was all over...Jim promised himself he would go back and educate her.

Now he looked out through darkened lenses at the Lincoln parked down the street. Imagining the men inside...heck, maybe they weren't men, maybe they were women, Brass acknowledged, thinking of Sara...glancing disinterestedly his way. He'd have to stop that kind of gender stereotyping he realized, his lips curving in amused self-deprecation.

He turned on the indicator and pulled smoothly out to the left into the flow of traffic. Stepping lightly on the accelerator, Brass adjusted the rear-view mirror, looking back down the street at the apartment, which was slowly growing smaller in the background. He noted with satisfaction that the black sedan was still parked at the curb. Its driver made no move to start the engine and follow him.

Sighing audibly, Jim pulled off the baseball cap, and tossed it into the backseat, running his fingers through his short hair. He checked the car's gas gauge. It was still half full, he could stop later. Adjusting the radio dial, he found a decent station and settled back for the ride to Laughlin.

Brass caught his grin reflecting back at him in the mirror. He didn't think the agents had even looked twice at the teal green Sunfire. Or at the car's driver with the cap pulled low, and the tinted glasses shading the eyes below the brim. He basked in the glow of self-satisfaction. The solution to his dilemma had been so simple in the end.

His neighbour Glen hadn't minded Jim borrowing his car at all. An artist, Glen Roarke was deeply immersed in the creation of a new painting, his easel set up by the oversized loft windows, taking advantage of the wonderful natural light. He had no intentions of going anywhere for the rest of the day, and had been quite happy to hand the detective his keys without question or comment.

And this, Jim knew, putting more distance between himself and the surveillance team, would buy him the time to run out to Laughlin and talk to Gladys. Without having to deal with any fall out from such an excursion. Without, in fact, the FBI, or Sheriff Brian Mobley, even knowing he had ever left his apartment.

It had been a truly lousy day that had started on about as negative a note as Brass could have imagined. But he couldn't help feeling bouyed. Jim might not technically be a cop at this moment, not one on the official payroll. But this was _his _case. _His _life. And his gut instinct was taking him to Laughlin where he believed he might catch a break and talk to the first person who knew what their killer looked like.

It was a much more pleasant feeling Jim conceded, as he turned off the A/C and rolled down the window to let the muggy air rush over him, bringing the sounds and smells of the city with it, to reclaim the role of hunter...rather than simply waiting around ineffectually, knowing that you were the hunted.


	47. Chapter 47

Brass couldn't help but smile when she opened the door while the echo of his knock was still reverberating in the halls. He imagined that she had heard the elevator as it had rumbled up to the floor, and that she had been aware of the heavy thud of the doors as they had slid open, allowing him to disembark. He could picture her, with her eye pressed to the peephole, satisfying her curiosity. Surprised when he continued down the carpeted hall to her own door.

"Yes?" the warbly voice inquired, as one eye and a halo of silver hair evidenced behind the partially opened door.

"Good day, Ma'am," Brass smiled congenially. "I don't know if you remember me. A friend and I stopped by Mr. Keeth's apartment on the day of his funeral. We had the pleasure of speaking with you briefly then. I'm Detective Jim Brass."

"Well of course I remember," Gladys said somewhat indignantly. "I've got all my faculties you know!" Jim nodded his affirmation of the statement. "You were with that lovely blonde woman." He was pleased that she had identified Catherine. So far everything boded well. "They're done fixing up the apartment now, you know. There's a new couple moving in there next week."

Brass had noticed that the caution tape had been removed from the door, the door itself replaced. There was still a faint, acrid smell in the hall, where smoke had settled deep into the carpet fibres. "I was wondering if you might have time to maybe answer a few questions for me," the detective said casually, "in regards to an open investigation. It's about the burglary that occured at Mr. Keeth's a few weeks before he died."

The elderly woman regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then she closed the door, and Brass heard the sound of the security chain being slipped off. A moment later she opened the door wide. Gladys stood there similarly attired to the way he had first seen her. A shapeless, faded floral house dress, and a thin, cotton housecoat. "Come on in," she welcomed, her head tilted curiously.

The apartment was an eclectic mix of clutter that spanned the last century. Everywhere the eye travelled, there was something to take in. It took him a moment to discern the colour of the walls...mint green...since it at first appeared that every available inch of space was occupied. There were family photographs going back several generations, from dour-faced men and women in stiff-collared formal clothes, to the laughing modern day portraits of what Brass assumed were Gladys' grandchildren. They jockeyed for position among needlework samplers, oil paintings and Walmart prints.

The furniture was a mix of antiques and Ikea specials. Knick knacks spilled from those spots on the walls where shelves had managed to elbow in, and graced every available bit of table space. There were crocheted throws everywhere, and next to a gliding rocker there was a large basket of different sized needles, and balls of coloured yarn.

Everything was clean and well cared for though, there was a pleasant scent of pine cleaner, and none of the proverbial 'dust collectors' were actually the repository of any dust. Despite the initial claustrophobic feel to the room there was a certain charm, and Brass could sense the love and personality with which the older woman had infused her surroundings.

"You have some lovely things," Jim told her honestly.

"Thank you." She smiled at the compliment. "Would you like some tea? I have some Earl Grey, my sister-in-law sends me from England."

"No, thank you," Brass declined. "I just had a couple of questions about the break-and-enter that occured at Mr. Keeth's apartment. I recall that you mentioned that there hadn't been any other units in the building that were burgled. I was wondering if...perhaps...you might have seen the person who broke into Mr. Keeth's place?"

"Why would I have seen anyone?" Gladys asked evasively. "It's not like I'm some busybody can't mind her own business, who doesn't have enough of her own to do."

"No, of course not," Jim reassured her. "I just thought...being so close... maybe there was an off-chance that you got a glimpse of someone." He waited until she sat down on the rocker, then sat on a chintz covered loveseat across from her.

"Well, I had no way of knowing that he wasn't a friend of Mr. Keeth's," Gladys began defensively, "or I would have called the police. Most definitely I would have. He walked right in, so naturally I thought Mr. Keeth had let him in, or that he had a key or something. I mean, he wasn't smashing the door in or anything." The elderly woman hugged her arms around herself.

Brass tried not to let his excitement show. Gladys _had _seen the intruder. Only she hadn't realized what was occuring, and hadn't phoned the cops, and she was worried that someone might think she had done something wrong.

"I can understand that," the detective nodded. "These guys...pros...can be in and out in a few minutes before anyone realizes what's really up." He waited until she had visibly relaxed. "So this guy you saw. Did you happen to notice what he looked like?" Brass could hear the strain in his voice, and wondered if she would notice it. There was potentially so much riding on her response.

"He didn't look like a criminal or anything," Gladys began. "Not tough looking or dangerous or anything. And he was wearing regular clothes, not dressed all dark or with one of those ski masks or anything. He was a smallish man. Short. And quite thin, really."

"How short?" Brass probed. "Shorter than me?"

"Yes, somewhat," she said with assurance. "About as tall as the blonde woman you were with."

Catherine was five six, Brass knew, and had been wearing a low heel the day of Elliott's memorial service. "How old would you say this man was?"

She frowned. "Hard to say really. I mean...he _looked_ kind of..._worn_...but not particularly old." She sighed and shook her head. "I don't know how to put it. He didn't look like an older man. He had a full head of hair. Dark and thick looking. A young man's hair. But his face was very thin, and kind of pale. Sort of like he was ill, or was getting over an illness. Do you know what I mean?"

Brass could hear Gil's voice on his inner ear. _"There were traces of an anti-viral drug, didanosine, on the letter. It's prescribed to HIV patients." _Doc Robbins had said that one of the side effects of the precription medication Videx might be weight loss. And someone with advanced HIV might also be similarly underweight. "Yeah, I think I do," he replied to the older woman. "Could you identify him if you saw him again?" Jim asked.

"I sure could, nothing wrong with these eyes!" Gladys replied, the dark depths sparkling.

The detective thought for a moment. "Do you know what a police composite artist does?" he asked her. "Someone who asks a witness questions about a suspect, and then recreates a drawing of them?"

"Well sure I do," Gladys told him.

"Did you get a good enough look at him that you think that maybe...with the help of that kind of artist...if you described the man, it would be possible to put together a drawing of the suspect?" Brass could feel the blood rushing through his veins. _Could Gladys be the witness they needed who would give them their first glimpse of their suspect?_

She looked nervous. "Oh dear. I can see him, but I don't know if I could tell that well enough to someone else."

"I know, it's hard to imagine how they could do it, but those artists are pretty amazing at asking the right questions, and putting a composite together," the detective told her. "Would you be willing to try at least?"

Gladys nodded. "I don't understand though. At the time of the burglary, no one even came to ask any questions. It didn't seem that important to anyone. Did someone just realize he stole something really valuable?"

"Ma'am, what this guy took is priceless," Jim replied somberly.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Do you recognize these women?" O'Reilly slid the three morgue headshots across the table towards Abe Harrison. Special Agent Arthur Fontaine sat quietly in the seat next to him, letting the detective take the lead.

The teller blanched. "Sure. Marilyn Hegel. And the two other women who were murdered. I don't remember their names."

"Jada Miller. Beth Marchison. Ringing any bells?" the detective asked, leaning forward on his beefy forearms.

"Yeah, I remember now," Harrison said. He shook his head. "Heck, that was five years ago, or so."

_Almost nine, actually, _O'Reilly thought. He was still stunned by all that he had learned today. Sheriff Mobley had called him into his office and told him everything that Brass had uncovered so far. O'Reilly had listened without a word, trying to absord everything. He had been heartsick to learn of the murders of the three detectives. Shocked to learn that Jim Brass was apparently the next intended target of some maniac who had been killing for the last decade. Dumbfounded to hear that Brass had been suspended and was under investigation by IA.

Still reeling, he had been introduced to Special Agent Fontaine, and informed that he would in essence be working _for _the FBI on this case. A case that spread across several years and several states and had already claimed several lives.

O'Reilly tried to concentrate on the situation at hand. If Harrison was their killer, he doubted the man would have forgotten the dates. He might just be playing dumb. Or, it could be that he wasn't involved in any way. People often had a hard time recalling the time lines of past events.

"You didn't have any problem remembering Marilyn Hegel's name," the detective mused.

"She was a customer at our bank," Harrison told him. "She used to come to my window some weeks. Nice lady."

"Beth Marchison banked at your branch too. Wasn't she a nice lady?"

"I don't remember her," Harrison said uncertainly. "Was she a regular? Mrs. Hegel was. It was a horrible shock when we learned she'd been murdered."

"Yeah? Really?" O'Reilly asked, his gaze piercing. "It's okay to hit a woman, but you draw the line there?"

Harrison's brow knitted in anger, and his cheeks coloured.

"You've been arrested for domestic assault, isn't that right, Abe?" O'Reilly leaned back in his chair and stared at the other man.

"What the hell are you getting at?" Harrison demanded. "Yeah, there was an incident a few years back. My ex-girlfriend, Carla. But I didn't abuse her. _She _abused _me. _I'd been out late with the guys, and had had a few drinks. She was always crazy jealous. Accused me of cheating on her. Went ballistic. I tried to hold her off, grabbed her wrists. There was lots of yelling, and a neighbour called the cops. I had to hold her tight, and she had sensitive skin, and her wrists got bruised. Luckily for her I'm not that fragile, and there were no bruises on my chest and face where she hit me. So guess who got hauled in?"

"You were actually the victim then," O'Reilly commented dryly. "That's why you agreed to take those anger management courses."

"Yeah, actually I _was_ the victim," Harrison returned. "That's why they dropped the charges. I agreed to take the stupid classes, but not because I had a problem. My lawyer said if it went to trial and Carla lied or got some friends to lie about me being some big abuser, that I could end up with jail time. We might be in Vegas, but I'm not much of a gambler. At that point I just wanted to get her out of my life and put the whole thing behind me. That broad was bad news." He shook his head morosely. "And what does that have to do with those murders anyways?"

"I don't know," O'Reilly returned quietly, "that's what I'm trying to find out." He paused. "Do you remember Claire Delsordo?" the detective asked causally.

"Who?" Harrison said tightly.

"She worked for Wells Fargo. She wound up dead too."

Harrison sighed in frustration. "I don't know any Claire Delsordo. Was she at our branch? I want to know what this is all about!"

"Do you take a yearly vacation, Abe?" O'Reilly inquired.

"Not every year, but yeah sometimes I do," he replied. "I went to Mexico last year. Cancun." Harrison gritted his teeth. "How about you? Are we just getting to know one another, or are you going somewhere with this?"

O'Reilly ignored the sarcasm. "Have you been to California in the last few years? Washington state? I think you went to college there, didn't you? You have friends or family there?"

"Yeah, I have a buddy from college who lives outside Spokane," Harrison answered.

"Have you been to visit him in the last few years at all?" the detective wanted to know. "And there's no point lying about it, we're going to run your credit cards."

"You do what you have to do," Harrison said. "Look, if you don't tell me what this about, I'm getting up and walking out of here. Unless you're planning to arrest me for God-knows-what."

O'Reilly knew that despite the outward bravado, there was an uncertainty underneath the teller's words. He could see it in the man's dark eyes. The detective knew that Harrison was their only real suspect so far, but in his gut he didn't think the guy was their serial killer.

Special Agent Fontaine entered the discussion for the first time. "Mr. Harrison, we now know that Todd Juneau, the man believed to have murdered Jada Miller, Marilyn Hegel and Beth Marchison nine years ago was either not involved in their deaths, or was not acting alone. We have reason to believe that the killer might have come into contact with the murdered women at the Wells Fargo Sunrise Centre Mall location. It is plausible to think that someone working at the bank at that time, might be involved in some way.

"There are certain reasons that we looking into you, Mr. Harrison, and that's why we were hoping we could have this little chat and get the chance to clear those things up. To give you an opportunity to exonerate yourself."

Harrison had paled significantly. "Oh God, you think...you think _I _could have...that I could ever..." He gripped the edge of the table and shook his head vehemently.

"Do I need a lawyer? I swear, I'd never hurt a woman. I never hurt Carla, swear to God, I just tried to keep her from hitting me. I did know Mrs. Hegel, she banked with us all the time, every couple of weeks she was in. I used to ask her about work and talk about the weather and stuff. I was just sick about it when I heard what had happened. I knew she had a couple of little kids. Two boys, I think."

Harrison closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they shone brightly with emotion. "Just tell me what I can do to clear this up," he pleaded.

"Well, we can't legally compel a DNA sample at this point in time," O'Reilly mentioned. "But if you were to volunteer one, that would be helpful."

"Also, if you give us a handwriting sample, that too would go a long way towards exonerating you," Fontaine explained coolly.

"Yeah, sure, whatever it takes," Harrison said compliantly. "I don't need a lawyer for that, right? I mean...you couldn't...wouldn't...use that kind of sample to frame me or anything?"

"We are only interested in seeing justice served, Mr. Harrison, not in corrupting it," Fontaine assured him. He knew that the DNA sample would take longer to compare than a handwriting sample. The agent nodded to the mirrored window, behind which he knew Catherine Willows waited. "On behalf of the Federal Bureau of Investigations and the Las Vegas Police Department...we appreciate your co-operation."

Catherine entered the room. She could feel her frustration mounting. The suspect was complying too readily with their requests. And he didn't seem like a cool, calculating serial killer. Harrison seemed genuinely shocked to be considered a suspect in such heinous crimes. Of course, he could just be a great actor.

The fact was that while there were several coincidences that made Harrison look like a good suspect on paper, the reality was that none of them were even sure if the bank was the connection between the victims. Or, if there really was a connection at all. Perhaps the victims had truly been chosen at random, selected because of opportunity, and it was only a coincidence that both Hegel and Marchison had done banking at the Sunrise Centre Mall.

Were they just grasping at straws? Desperate to find their killer before he claimed yet another victim...a victim that they knew personally? While there might be an element of that, Catherine knew that Harrison _had _been a good suspect. And the only way to either eliminate him or decide that he was the one to concentrate on, was to take the plunge the way they were doing.

She set out a sheet of paper for Abe Harrison, then handed him a ballpoint pen, and read several short sentences for him to record. After slipping the page into an evidence bag, she broke the seal on a new swab, and pressed it into the interior of Harrison's mouth. Nick was waiting to courier the DNA sample to Greg back at the lab, and Ronnie was waiting in another room of the station to do the handwriting analysis.

"Thank you, Mr. Harrison," the criminalist said. Then to the detective and FBI agent. "I should be back soon."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Well, I did it," Sara said, sauntering into the breakroom, flashing her gap-toothed grin. "I'm Agent Sara Sidle now, more or less." She had come in to work hours early. Not really expecting to find anyone from shift here and working. But thinking that perhaps she might run into Grissom. And curious about what had been hinted at back at Quantico.

"Hey, that's great," Warrick said, crossing the room to clasp a hand on her shoulder.

Nick rose from his chair, and went to Sara, giving her a quick hug. "Congratulations, Sara," he said.

Even though Sara knew they were both happy for her, she could sense that they were preoccupied. She had anticipated more enthusiasm about her accomplishment. Perhaps more poignancy that she was really and truly leaving. She couldn't help but feel disappointed.

"You know, we'll have to go out and have a drink or something before I go," she suggested, trying to maintain her smile.

"That sounds great, Sara, but we're kind of swamped with something right now," Warrick told her hesitantly.

Nick glanced towards the DNA lab where Greg sat with his streaked head bent over a microscope. "We're all pulling doubles right now. There's not much time for a social life," he told her tiredly.

"What's up guys?" Sara wanted to know. "Big case? I'm not gone yet, just put me to work." She crossed her arms and jutted one slim hip, and waited expectantly.

"Look, I don't know where to begin, and I'm really pressed for time right now," Nick said regretfully. "You'd better talk to Grissom."

"Yeah, a lot has gone down the past couple of days while you were away," Warrick agreed tiredly. He fixed a half-hearted smile on his handsome mocha features. "That is awesome though, about you getting in with the Feds. Our loss is their gain. Congratulations."

Sara stood there alone, after the two men left the room, hurrying off in different directions, for whatever important tasks occupied them that evening. Physically she was still here in Las Vegas...but she could feel that emotionally her co-workers...her friends...had already said their farewells. In their minds, Sara was already as good as gone. She probably had been the moment she had tendered her resignation. It wasn't that she thought they didn't care about her, or that they wouldn't miss her as much as she would miss them. But it was painfully obvious to Sara that Nick and Warrick, at least, had already made the break.

There was a pall about the lab that the brunette had sensed when she had first come in. She knew that there was something major that they were all working on. Something that involved the FBI. It had been suggested to her that one of her colleagues had handled things badly, in the eyes of the Feds.

Where did she fit into things now? Not really a federal agent yet. On her way out as a CSI. Would either group consider her one of them?

Both Nick and Warrick seemed to agree that she should talk to Grissom. Was he at the heart of what was happening now, as she had suspected?

Sara found Grissom in his office. The lights were low, he was leaning back in his chair, and his eyes were closed. She wondered if he was fighting a migraine. Sara knocked softly on the door.

Gil opened his eyes and leaned forward. He reached for the gold-rimmed glasses on his desk and slipped them on. He regarded her impassively for a moment, then gave a smile that seemed weighted with sorrow. "Sara," he said simply.

"Headache?" she asked.

"No. You can get the lights," he replied.

Sara hit the switch near the door and the bright flourescents chased back the shadows. She came further into the room, finally standing next to the desk.

"So... did you get it?" Grissom asked quietly.

"I did," Sara told him.

Gil inclined his head slightly. "Good." He had believed from the start that she would.

"When I was still back in Quantico, I heard that something was up. The Feds were here for some big case. There's been nothing on the news, I've been checking. I don't think I've ever seen Nick and Warrick so serious. Grissom...what's going on?"

Gil sighed heavily, and leaned his elbows on the desk. "Have a seat, Sara."

Afterwards, Sara sat silently, her body coiled with tension. She could hardly believe everything that Grissom had told her. The entire situation seemed so surreal. When he had told her about Jim Brass being in danger, Sara had been struck by the force and depth of her concern. And then by a deep sorrow. She had always considered Brass a friend. And yet...he hadn't once called her to let her know what was going on. Even after being suspended. It was as though everyone she knew had simply cut her out of their lives as soon as she had spoken of her intention to leave the CSI unit.

"What can I do?" she asked solemnly.

Gil shrugged. "You'll have to go talk to Ecklie. He's probably in the conference room. Like I said, he's in charge of things on our end now."

Sara rose and moved towards the door.

"Congratulations, Sara," he called after her. "You'll shine there, I know," Grissom said with quiet surety.

She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. Taking in the puffy shadows beneath his intelligent, blue eyes. Noting the way the light reflected from the silver threads in his salt and pepper hair. Remembering what his skin had felt like, the night she informed him she was brushing drywall chalk from his cheek. _Oh God, _she thought, _I'm going to miss him. _"Thanks," she answered.

Gil watched the slim set of her shoulders and the gentle sway of her black denim clad hips as Sara exited down the hall. Soon, very soon, he would watch her walk away from him for the very last time. Alone now, he allowed the mask to drop. And his features crumpled with the acknowledgement of his impending loss.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

When Brass returned home from Laughlin early that evening, driving the teal-coloured Sunfire back undergound, beneath the noses of the unsuspecting federal agents, there was a message on his answering machine. _Maybe it'll be Mobley, wanting to reinstate me and begging me to come back_, he thought acerbically.

It was Tony Scrivo, the owner of the Poseidon restaurant. _"Hello my friend. It was good to see you the other night. Sorry we didn't get to really talk. Maria and I were both hoping you could come over for a barbecue next week. Monday or Tuesday would be good. You're most welcome to bring your pretty lady friend. We can grill up a couple of steaks...I'm getting a bit tired of seafood..."_ Tony's hearty laugh boomed over the receiver, _"and open a couple of bottles of wine. Or, I've got some cold beer and the bar stocked with your favourite scotch. Let us know. Hope life's being good to you! Ciao."_

What he wouldn't give, to be able to accept that invitation. To be able to take Cecilia to Tony and Maria's. To let them get to know her and see how wonderful she was. His disappointment was a physical ache.

Brass left the message without deleting it. There was something comforting in the normalacy of the words and sentiments expressed. Tony could have had no idea, when he had called, just how very good life _wasn't_ being to Jim these days.

But perhaps things were getting better. Gladys had given him a description of the killer. It wasn't perfect, but it was something to go on. The sticky thing was what was Jim going to do with that information now. He couldn't march into the station and up to the office now commandeered by Special Agent Fontaine, let them know he had slipped surveillance, gone off to Laughlin to pursue a lead, ask them to follow up with Gladys and expect them to just let him walk back out again.

Maybe Jim could get in touch with Catherine somehow. He had to tell _someone _what he had learned. It was imperative that someone other than he knew about Gladys and what she had seen. Just in case the killer got to the detective before Jim got to him. Brass didn't want to do anything to compromise Catherine's job though.

Finally, he decided to email her at her home computer. He knew he had the address on file. Years ago, when they had both first gotten online, in the early days when the novelty of the internet had enamoured them both, they had exchanged those forwarded jokes that were always going around. They had ceased that years ago, tiring of the fad, and neither of them having the time to maintain that form of communication. He could email Catherine there now though. And even if she didn't check the email immediately, she would check it eventually, and the things Brass had learned would be safe somewhere other than inside his head.

He had just finished sending the email and had cracked open a beer, when his phone rang. "Brass," he said brusquely, answering it the way he would answer his work phone.

"Hi, Jim. It's Cecilia."

_Did she really think that she would have to identify herself? That he wouldn't recognize her voice? How could he ever forget those husky, sultry tones? _"Hey," he said simply. Jim closed his eyes, savouring the knowledge that she was on the other end of the line. Picturing the dark waves of her hair. Imagining the bronzed softness of her skin.

"I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, about everything that's happened. I think what Sheriff Mobley has done is incredibly unfair, and just plain stupid. I think this investigation needs you. I...I can imagine how upsetting this must be. How frustrating. I'm sorry, Jim."

He could hear the empathy in her voice. Even after everything he had done, and the things she only thought he had done. "I appreciate that," he said huskily.

"Ecklie has moved me to swingshift now, and dayshift and grave are working the case," Cecilia told him. "But I do know that they brought that teller, Abe Harrison in. They did a swab and are working on comparing DNA. But he's not the guy. He volunteered for that and for a handwriting sample. Ronnie is sure he isn't the one who wrote the letters." She was silent for a moment. "I thought you deserved to know."

He didn't ask her how she knew all of this. Catherine would have found a way to tell her. "Thank you."

"I hope that...if there's anything I can do..." she seemed at a loss for words. "Take care." Then, tremulously, "Be careful, Jim."

He realized that he couldn't let her hang up, thinking what he knew she was thinking about Annie Kramer. He couldn't let her be near him, but he didn't want Cecilia to think that badly of him. To be hurt by an imagined betrayal. "Cecilia," he said desperately. "I want you to know...there's nothing between Annie and I. There hasn't been since New Jersey. There wasn't when I went to L.A., and she only came here as a friend." Jim sighed raggedly. "It's important to me that you know that. That you believe it." He waited, his intestines knotted.

"I believe you, Jim," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, yet resolute.

_He wanted to tell her why he had to keep her at a distance. He wanted to tell her that he loved her as he had never loved a woman before. _"Thanks again. Bye." He struggled against the longing.

"You're welcome. Bye." Was that longing he heard in her words as well?

And then there was only the buzz of the dialtone in his ear. Jim gripped it in his hand, reluctant to put it down, as though as long as he held it, his connection to Cecilia could not be broken. He wanted her. Needed her. And once this was all over...he was going to tell her how he felt. And he was going to get her back.

So, Abe Harrison was not their killer. Another dead end. Brass didn't know what Harrison looked like, but he would bet that he wasn't about five foot seven, thin and gaunt, with thick, dark hair. Somewhere out there though...somewhere close...was a man who fit that description. Jim could sense it.

There wasn't much that he could do with that information right now though. Mobley had effectively tied his hands. There was one thing that he could do, however. Brass decided to open another of the boxes of papers that had used to belong to Beth Marchison. It would keep him busy, and even though it probably wouldn't lead anywhere, it was important to be thorough.

An hour later, with the sun beginning its descent in the desert sky, Jim stared, mouth agape, at the paper he held in his hand. His throat was dry, and the blood pounded in his head. Incredibly...unbelievably...but _undeniably_...this was _it. _Here, at last, was the evidence that would give him the identity of a serial killer.


	48. Chapter 48

_I am glad to see that there are still readers for this story. It's been a long journey. It's hard to believe that I started 'And Then There Was One' over a year ago now. I hope to be able to post the next chapters regularly. I appreciate those who have stuck with it, and who have taken the time to share their thoughts and generous praise. It has been a true pleasure to share it with you. Cathy._

Chapter 48

Brass stared at the sheet of paper that he held clutched in his hands. His chest felt tight, his lungs constricted, as though he couldn't draw breath. His mind whirled, and he could hear the sound of the blood swishing through his head, as the adrenaline surged and his blood pressure skyrocketed.

He had been going through old receipts of Beth Marchison's. Jim had been impressed with her organizational skills. Everything was in a clearly labeled folder, everything alphabetized, everything broken into subgroups...utilities, household expenses, entertainment. He found it in the group of Visa purchases. He almost overlooked it, not realizing the import of what he had found, until his dark eyes scanned to the bottom.

_They had been so close!_ He and Catherine had been on the right track. The mall _was_ the epicentre. But it wasn't the bank that had been the connection between the women. It wasn't the lingerie store.

_Six hundred dollars, the total before tax. _Beth Marchison's full name, address and phone number were printed clearly on the top of the bill. For a moment, Brass was transported back to the pleasant backyard of Dorothy Marchison. _"Tia is a Maltese," Dorothy Marchison explained with a smile. "She's not really a puppy. She's nine years old now." The smile faltered for a moment. "She was Elizabeth's dog. She had only just gotten her. Tia really was just a puppy then, only a few months old. Stanley and I took her in."_

The receipt was from Fins and Fur, the pet store that was in the same corridor of the mall, opposite where the Wells Fargo bank was located. It was dated less than a week before the cocktail waitress' body was found in her own home. Beth Marchison's signature was near the bottom of the receipt, acknowledging the credit card charge and her understanding of the limited health guarantees for her new Maltese puppy. And below her signature...that of the sales clerk.

Brass couldn't make out the name, but the first initial of the first name began with a _D. _Even to his untrained eye, there was no denying that whoever had signed the purchase agreement was the same individual who had penned the letters that followed the Holiday Murders. The one who had written the letter that Denny Martens had secreted in his home safe. The person who had composed the note to Brass, the one that bore traces of the anti-HIV drug, Videx.

That clear, narrow _D _had been imprinted on the detective's memory. _D_ear _D_etective. The same oversized loop. The duplicate icicle writing that Ronnie had explained to them. "_I circled the areas that stand out as the most distinctive, and as you can see, they are identical in each one. The first letter, the D in the salutation, is crisp, thin, with no observable lead-in stroke." _Jim didn't need the handwriting analyst to confirm what every nerve and fibre of his being was screaming at him now. _Whoever had signed this receipt, had already murdered Jada Miller and Marilyn Hegel, and then killed not only Beth Marchison, but all of those other women. And finally, had taken the lives of the three detectives who had worked the original case._

The surname began with an _S_ but Brass could not decipher it. Something that ended with a _y_, it seemed. _Story_, maybe? The killer's initials were D.S. Brass knew what he looked like, and knew where he worked. He glanced at his watch. There was still time to get to the Sunrise Centre Mall before it closed. Jim tucked the .44 Magnum into its holster, and then donned a suit jacket to cover the firearm. His veins sang with the expectation of victory. _He was truly on the bastard's trail now._

Brass drove his own car to the mall, not caring that the FBI agents would follow him. He hadn't been forbidden to go shopping, and if they wanted to tail him there, that was fine. On the way, he wondered if the killer would actually be at the store. He imagined the man's face, when he walked in, and the guy knew the gig was up. Jim realized that it was possible that it was the killer's day off. Possible that he didn't even work there any more. It might be necessary to question other employees, at which point his lack of a badge and his I.D. card could be a problem.

His solution was imperfect, and despite the seriousness of the situation, Brass couldn't help grinning as he came out of the costume shop on the mall's upper level. He wondered about the legal technicalities of what he was about to do. Could they charge you with impersonating a police officer if you really _were_ a police officer...albeit a suspended one? The metal badge only had five points, as opposed to the seven of his real badge, but Jim was banking that the average civilian wouldn't be aware of the difference. And the heavy, metal star was convincingly realistic enough, he thought. If it allowed him to pull off the masquerade, it would be worth every penny of the seven dollars he had just spent on it.

The mall was closing in twenty minutes. He didn't have a lot of time. Brass knew that one of the FBI agents was back at the parked Lincoln, while the other wandered the mostly deserted mall, trying to look inconspicuous in his dark suit. The agent hung back, just observing. Jim was tempted to wave at the man, but he didn't want to be a total ass. The guy was just doing his job.

When the detective went into the pet store, the agent took a seat in the corridor between the potted palmetto trees, and picked up a discarded copy of the day's paper, pretending to immerse himself in the news. He looked up briefly when another patron strolled past, then away from the small, dark-haired man disinterestedly.

A young brunette woman was sweeping the floor of the shop when Brass entered. She looked up at him tiredly, and he caught her glance at her watch. Still, she fixed a smile on her face and set aside the broom. "Can I help you, Sir?"

He flashed the badge at her, before slipping it into the front pocket of the jacket. "Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police," he told her. She looked guilty for a moment then her expression cleared. It was funny, he thought, how so many people automatically felt guilty when he introduced himself as a police officer, even if they hadn't done anything wrong. "I'm looking for someone who's an employee here." He extracted the receipt from his inner pocket and showed it to the girl. "Do you know whose signature this is?"

The girl took the paper and studied it for a moment. Shaking her head, she passed it back to him. "No, I don't recognize it."

Brass tried to stave off the disappointment. It could be that the killer no longer worked here. Somewhere though, there would be an employment record. Someone would know him. "How long have you worked here?" Jim asked the girl.

"Three months," she replied.

So, the killer probably hadn't been there during that time frame at least. "Do you have a number where I can get ahold of the manager or the owner?" he asked hopefully. "This is urgent."

"Mr. Hayter is in the back doing some paperwork," she replied. "He's the owner. I can get him if you like."

So, the owner's name was Hayter. Not something that began with an S. That would rule him out as a suspect. Now, hopefully the store had not changed hands recently, and Hayter would have been there at the time the killer was, and could finally tell Jim the identity of the man that he sought.

Moments after the brunette disappeared towards the back of the store, she returned with a middle-aged, portly, red-haired man in tow. He was about Jim's height but with a fleshier build. Hayter certainly didn't match Gladys' physical description of the suspect who had broken into Elliott Keeth's apartment.

"I'm Phil Hayter, Officer, how can I help you?" Hayter seemed to have accepted the young woman's identification of Brass as a policeman.

"I'm looking for one of your employees. Possibly a former employee. Have you owned the business for long, Mr. Hayter?"

"Almost twelve years," the other man told him. "This used to be a hair salon, but it went out of business, and when the lease came up I relocated from downtown," he explained. "Is one of my people in trouble? I can't imagine that."

The brunette went back to her sweeping, though Brass could see that she stayed within earshot, curious as to who the detective was seeking and why. Jim gave Hayter the receipt for Beth Marchison's Maltese puppy. "Do you recognize the signature of the person who sold this dog?"

"Wow, this is an old one," the other man remarked. "We're all computerized now, sales receipts come off the printer." He checked the date, and whistled. Then, narrowing his hazel eyes, he brought the paper closer to his face. "Left my glasses back on the desk," he sighed. "Yeah, I think I know who signed this. He hasn't worked here in years though. Dean. Now what was his last name again? Oh yeah, Sturney."

_Dean Sturney. _Brass felt the gooseflesh ripple across the surface of his skin. _He had a name. After all this time, after all the dead ends...he now knew who his adversary was. _"Do you have an address for Sturney?" he inquired. "Social security number?"

"He was here before we joined the electronic age," Hayter mused, "otherwise I could just type his name into the computer. But I do still have some paperwork in the back in the filing cabinet. I can take a look for you."

Brass sighed with relief. Hayter hadn't refused to give his assistance, or asked for a warrant. He followed the older man back behind the cash register, through a narrow door to a cramped, windowless room. As the business owner pawed through disorganized sheafs of papers that could have benefited from the late Beth Marchison's skills, he turned his head and glanced back over his beefy shoulder at the detective.

"So why are you looking for Dean? You know, I always thought he was an odd duck. Did his job well enough. He was always pushing the puppies, and that's always a good profit. He loved to set up the pen and get the pups out playing in it. Sometimes I used to think he just did it because it always attracted the pretty girls," Hayter chuckled. "Women can't resist a tiny, cuddly bundle of fluff. Put the pups on display and instead of just walking by, people stop at the store."

Brass could envision the women. Miller. Hegel. Marchison. In the mall on other business...Miller here to purchase lingerie, Hegel and Marchison doing business with Wells Fargo. All of them entering and exiting the Sunrise Centre Mall through the back entrance. All of them passing by the pet store. Drawn by the puppies that cavorted in their wire pen at the front of the store. Pausing to look, or to stroke their silky fur, while soft, pink tongues lapped against their skin. Just as Catherine had been drawn to them the other day.

And watching the women...Sturney. Selecting from among the ones who took his bait, those who would become his victims. Perhaps he had chatted with them. Had they recognized him, later, when he had raped and then killed them?

He'd managed to convince Beth Marchison to buy one of the pups. Cleverly getting her home address. Not needing to stalk or follow her, but able to attack her at his leisure. In what should have been the safety of her own home. She had had no idea, as she had filled out the purchase agreement, what kind of monster she was dealing with. Not knowing that her hopeful purchase had sealed her fate.

"I don't encourage impulse buys when it comes to cats and dogs," Hayter defended, "that's a long term committment that needs a lot of thought. But if it gets people in the shop, makes them decide that even if they don't have the lifestyle for a dog they might like a bird or a fish, then hey it's all good."

"You say he was an odd duck," Brass said. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"Well, he was a really keep to himself kind of guy. I hesitated to even hire him in the first place, because I like my people to be...people-people, I guess you'd say. And there was a kind of coldness about him. But he was a bright guy, and pretty knowledgeable about animals and had a good business sense. And I found out that he could turn on the charm with the customers, when he wanted to.

"I don't know why he took a job here, really," Hayter continued. "He mentioned one time that he had some money. Some insurance settlement. His mom died in a fire or something. It was the only time I ever heard him say something that was _personal. _I got the feeling that he didn't really _need_ to work, you know what I mean? Or that he had enough he could've opened his own business if he'd had the ambition.

"One thing that stood out...he always refused to work the holidays. Even for time and a half. Wouldn't even consider it, made it really clear the first time I asked him if he'd do a shift on Easter for me. It wasn't a big deal, there were always students eager to get the extra money. It just struck me as strange, because he never talked about any family, and he wasn't the religious type, and those are the only two reasons I can think of that someone wouldn't want to work the holidays. And it wasn't just the stat holidays, it was any of them. Hallowe'en even."

_Jada Miller, killed around Labor Day. Marilyn Hegel, abducted on Hallowe'en and discovered murdered not long afterwards. Beth Marchison, found dead in her home the day after Thanksgiving. _Brass' blood ran cold.

"And he seemed really...angry...that I'd even brought it up. Nothing obvious or insubordinate. It just made me think that somewhere underneath all that cool, Sturney could have a really bad temper." Hayter looked chagrined for a moment. "To tell the truth, he made me kind of nervous that day, though it's hard to say why. But it was quickly forgotten, and like I said it wasn't a big deal, I had enough other employees to work the holidays." Phil Hayter looked curiously at the detective. "It's funny, I haven't thought about Dean Sturney in years. And now I can remember him so clearly."

"What did Sturney look like?" Brass asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Not very tall, bit below average. Bit shorter than me." He eyed the detective, judging them to be about the same height. "Or you. Good build. You could tell he worked out. Dark hair. Really pale blue eyes. They were kinda striking. Not what you'd call a good lookin' guy or anything, but not a dog either." Hayter laughed. "No pun intended."

Gladys hadn't mentioned seeing the burglar's eyes. Except for the build, Sturney sounded like the same man though. Could his current gauntness have to do with his being HIV positive?

"Here we go. This is the information I had on file," Hayter explained. "Whether or not it's current, I have no idea. Like I said, he hasn't worked here in years. Several years, really. I guess the social security number isn't gonna change though." He pulled the sheet from the drawer. "You want a photocopy?" he asked the detective agreeably.

"That'd be great," Brass told him appreciatively.

"So, I guess you're not gonna tell me why you're looking for Dean, huh?" Hayter smiled knowingly, as he fed the page into the fax machine, which whirred to life, and created a duplicate.

"I can't," Jim smiled back. "Not right now. But I will say that your help has been invaluable."

"Well, I'm happy to do anything I can do for Las Vegas' finest," Phil Hayter said sincerely.

It was time to lock up the store, and as Brass exited, the pet shop owner slid closed the big glass doors behind him. Tucked safely in his breast pocket was the information that would help him locate a serial killer, and put a murderous spree to an end for once and for all. Brass had committed to memory the last known address of Dean Sturney. An apartment just a few blocks away from the mall.

Jim couldn't wait any longer to confront Sturney. He was so close to resolving this case, to putting an end to the horror, and to getting his life back on track. It would mean that the FBI agents would follow him to Sturney's apartment. They wouldn't have any idea what the disgraced detective was doing there though, and so they were unlikely to interfere. By the time he brought Sturney out, it wouldn't matter anymore. Starting up the sedan's engine, Brass pulled out of the now secluded parking lot, watching in the rearview mirror as the black Lincoln did the same just moments later. The bulge of the metal at his waistband was comforting. His insurance that things would go his way.

The apartment was a lowrise, a block of mid-priced units that formed a square around an outdoor pool. Brass was able to walk up to the third floor, to apartment 3-G, to the last known address that Phil Hayter had had for his former employee, Dean Allan Sturney. Keeping one hand near his right hip, close to the gun, he raised his other and knocked.

The door was opened by an attractive, fortyish black woman. She was wearing silk pajamas, obviously readying for bed, even though it was only just past nine. "Yes?" she asked with a dazzling smile.

"Captain Jim Brass, Las Vegas Police. Ma'am, I'm looking for a Dean Sturney." Sturney wasn't here, Brass knew automatically. And probably hadn't been for some time.

"I'm sorry, you have the wrong apartment," she told him politely.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," the detective said. "May I ask how long you've lived here?"

"Almost four years," she replied evenly.

Jim thanked her for her time. His steps, as he came back down the stairs, were heavy. Had he honestly expected that Sturney would still be there? That he could just knock on the door and take him into custody and this nightmare would be over that easily? If he hadn't been under suspension, Brass could have called into the station, and had someone run the information Hayter had given him. Determined whether or not Sturney was even listed as being in the Clark County area. But he didn't have those resources right now.

What was his next move? Where to go from here? Jim had to find a way to get a current address for Sturney. Before the killer knew that the detective was on to him. There was one possibility, but he would have to go back to the loft. So, with the surveillance team in tow, Brass went back to his own apartment.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Fontaine." The FBI agent brought the cell phone to his ear and listened. "He did? Yes, I'm sure it means something, but I don't know just what." Another pause. "Make sure he stays there. If he tries to leave, I want you to intercept. Bring him in. Otherwise, just sit tight. Thanks, and good work."

Fontaine returned the phone to his pocket, his grey-eyed gaze meeting the serene sapphire one of Catherine Willows. He regarded her thoughtfully. "Your Captain just took a little trip to the mall," he told her. "The Sunrise Centre Mall." He watched her eyes widen, before she quickly veiled them again. "That's interesting, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Catherine smiled back at him. _What are you up to, Jim? _she wondered.

"You and he were pursuing the lead about the bank, that's how we got onto Harrison. You don't think...after the sheriff ordered him not to be involved in this investigation in any way...that Captain Brass is still poking around on his own, do you?" Fontaine gave a thin smile.

Catherine shrugged her slender shoulders. "Maybe he just went shopping," she replied coyly.

"Well, he did make a short stop at a costume shop, and then a longer one at the mall's pet store," Fontaine told her. "Can you think of any reason he might do that?" His tone was light, but there was a tension in his tall frame.

"No," Catherine answered guilelessly. "Though the mayor's costume ball is next month, I believe. And I think Brass might have mentioned something about getting a goldfish."

Fontaine's eyes narrowed. "Just in case there's any confusion about where your loyalties lie, let me remind you. You aren't doing yourself...or Captain Brass...any favours if you withhold any information that might be crucial to the resolution of this case. I understand that you might not agree with everything that has happened here in the last twelve hours. But we both want the same thing. To keep Captain Brass alive, and to apprehend this killer who has eluded us for so long. The _only _way we're going to do that, is to work together.

"If you know anything, _anything_ that could help this investigation...and you keep it from me...there could be repercussions beyond whatever you might have anticipated. And I'm not talking about people's careers here...I'm not making any threats, I don't give a damn about petty office politics...I'm talking about people's _lives. _Believe me, I can imagine how you feel. How you all feel. But I _need _you to trust me. To work with me here. I honestly believe it's the only chance we have."

Catherine stared at Fontaine. While his features were as impassive as ever, she could hear the sincerity in his impassioned words. There was something compelling about the tall, dignified Special Agent. Finally, her gaze softened and the resentment eased from her features. "I don't know what Jim is up to," she told him truthfully.

Fontaine sighed. "I just hope he's not planning to try anything stupid."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

_Access denied. _

Brass had expected as much. His password to get onto the LVPDs computer system was invalid, temporarily suspended, along with the other trappings of his career. He hunched over the keyboard and typed in another succession of numbers and letters, thinking of Elliott Keeth as he did so.

Keeth, with his stubborn, combatitive nature, who was often finding himself on the outs with his superiors. It had been Elliott Keeth who had mischeviously shared a secret with his partner Jim Brass several years ago. The other cop had shown Brass a trick he had learned, with the help of a friend who was a reformed computer hacker. A way to create _two _passwords to access the LVPD's system. The second one, created using the first, hidden and buried, difficult to detect unless someone specifically knew to look for it.

_Password accepted. _

Brass was in. It took him only a few minutes to enter Dean Sturney's name. And to discover that the former pet store employee had recently renewed his Nevada driver's license. He was living here, in Las Vegas. At an address on a quiet, residential street of detached homes, out near McCarran International Airport.

There was a photograph. Brass felt a tightness in his chest as he stared at the grainy photo. Beneath a shock of thick, dark hair, Sturney's unusually pale blue eyes seemed to stare a challenge back at him. The man's cheekbones, and the collar bones at the neckline of his open-necked golf shirt, were prominent. _Dean Allan Sturney. _Brass felt a mixture of hatred and rage. He took a deep breath. He would have to contain his emotions. This one was _personal_, no way around it, but Jim had to make sure he was in control.

Brass knew that the _right_ thing to do would be to notify P.D. To turn over everything he had discovered. To let the Feds take over. It didn't matter _who _apprehended Sturney, as long as the serial killer was off the streets. But he couldn't do that. Not knowing that Sturney was responsible not only for the murders of several women, but for the deaths of three fellow detectives. Two of them, friends of Jim's. All of them men he had liked and respected. Men whom the job had brought closer in a way that most people could ever know or understand. He owed it to them to get this guy _himself._

Sturney had reached across time and space and set down a challenge. He was going to be coming for Jim Brass. But Jim was going to get him first. And then, if Mobley or Fontaine wanted to strip him of his stripes permanently...if they wanted to throw him in the slammer for obstruction of justice...so be it. That wasn't what the detective wanted, of course. He wanted his job and his freedom. He wanted to be able to fix things with Cecilia. To build a life with her, a real life that was more than the mere act of existence that had been his circumstance for longer than he could remember.

But he wouldn't...couldn't...back off now. Not when he was so close to the end. No matter what.

Jim left an envelope for Catherine on his desk. It contained the information about Sturney. Just an insurance policy, in case, somehow, Sturney bested him. He wouldn't take the killer's identity to his grave.

The detective stood at his window for a moment, looking out at the familiar city view. Somewhere in the darkness above were the glittering lights of stars, he knew, though they were always obscured by the megawatt output of the city itself. Unable to compete with the blinding, man-made brilliance.

Brass turned, and surveyed his livingroom. Everything was familiar and comforting. His furniture and those few personal items he had out on display. His collection of music. Everything in its place. Everything his. Everything a little part of him in some way or another. There was an electricity in the air. After tonight, he knew his life would be forever changed. He would return a new man, with a new lease on life. One with new hope and new dreams to pursue.

Or...Jim Brass wouldn't return at all. And those hopes and dreams would die with him.


	49. Chapter 49

_This story is incredibly enoyable to be creating at this point. I am glad that the tension and expectation I am hoping to impart has not failed to translate to the screen. I really appreciate knowing that others are able to accept the characters I have created and the situations they find themselves in. Sharing 'my' CSI world with others is very rewarding. Thanks so much. Cathy._

Chapter 49

"Captain Brass tried to access the LVPD computer system about ten minutes ago," the young, blonde female agent reported to Fontaine.

He looked up from a blueprint of the Sunrise Centre Mall that was spread out on the conference table. He had marked the bank and the lingerie store that Willows and Brass had been investigating, and now the costume shop and the pet store that the detective had recently been at. So far, the only connection between any of the victims had been the Wells Fargo bank. Two of the Las Vegas women, Hegel and Marchison had dealt with them. Claire Delsordo in Chicago had worked for Wells Fargo.

Fontaine had been impressed that Willows and Brass had been pursuing the angle. So far, the FBI's investigation had found nothing to link the other four women. It had stunned Fontaine to realize that the serial killer he had been seeking had had a start a couple of years earlier in an entirely different state. Going over the old case files, he had understood why Todd Juneau had been a suspect. And why, despite what was actually very sketchy forensic evidence, the LVPD had put the case to bed with Juneau's death following the attempt to take him into custody. His actions had screamed guilt. And the killings had ceased. In Nevada, at least.

On paper, the teller, Abe Harrison had looked like a good suspect. His connection to Washington state, potentially putting him in the paths of the two women murdered there, had further excited the agent, and he had considered Harrison his first real potential break. When it had become evident that the teller was _not _the killer they sought, Fontaine's disappointment had been deep.

He could understand why Sheriff Mobley had taken disciplinary action against Captain Jim Brass. The man _had _made a serious breach of protocol. And part of Fontaine was incredibly irritated about the length of time that had passed between Brass' realization that this was a bigger case than originally thought...and one under FBI perview...and his notification. He would have liked to have worked _with _the seasoned detective. The other man seemed to instill respect and admiration in his colleagues...excepting the sheriff of course...and Fontaine believed that Brass would have been an incredible asset to the investigation.

That Brass had uncovered the fact that the deaths of those three detectives who had worked the original holiday murders...Martens, Keeth and Takei...were not the accidents they appeared to be, gave Fontaine a deep respect for the officer. The detective had acted solely on instinct, and had continued to pursue his hunch despite dead end after dead end. And what Brass had finally uncovered had turned out to be more involved than anyone could have imagined. His discoveries had given them the big break that they needed.

Fontaine knew it was unreasonable to just expect Brass to sit back twiddling his thumbs and turn the case over to someone else, and then forget about it. Not even taking into consideration the personal aspect...that Brass was the killer's next intended target...to expect a cop like that to just walk away and be hands off was very unrealistic. But as much as he respected the man, as grateful as Fontaine was for the work Jim Brass had done so far, he could _not _allow the detective to do anything that might compromise the investigation here on out.

_So what the hell was the Captain up to now? What was it he had been trying to do? _They had flagged Brass' de-activated password, to keep tabs on him and alert them if he tried anything like this. The Captain was making it very hard for Fontaine to allow him his freedom. On the one hand, the agent believed that there was a good chance that when the killer made a move on Brass they could intercept him and put an end to all of this that way. So in a way they _needed_ Brass out there. But if the detective was continuing to try to be involved in the case, alone and without support, he risked jeopardizing it.

"Thank you, Jeannie," Fontaine told the young woman, and she nodded from the doorway and continued on.

Fontaine looked sideways at Catherine Willows, perched on the chair next to him. "He's not going to let it go, is he?" he asked wryly.

Catherine looked away for a moment, and then back at Fontaine. "Would you?" she asked simply.

Sighing deeply, the agent quickly looked up Jim Brass' home phone number and dialed the other man's apartment. It rang five times, before switching over to an answering machine. _"This is 555-1411. I'm not available right now. Leave a message and I'll get back to you." _Fontaine hung up without doing so, waited a few minutes, and then tried again. Once more, he got the answering machine.

It wasn't that late yet, and he didn't think the detective had turned in and fallen into a deep slumber in the ten minutes since he'd tried to access the computer database. Hell, he didn't think the other man would be sleeping much at all these days. He dialed the agents on stake out. "This is Fontaine. Has Brass made any attempt to leave the building since we last spoke?"

"No, Sir. He's still inside."

Fontaine knew that Brass would have realized by now that he was under surveillance. There was no rear exit to the building, Fontaine knew, not even a service entrance and exit. Everything and everyone either came through the front lobby, or through the underground parking. So it was impossible for Brass to have snuck out a back way on foot.

"Let me know if there's any change."

"Yes, Sir."

Once more, Fontaine dialed Brass' apartment. It could just be that the other man had call display, didn't recognize the number, and didn't feel the need to pick up. This time, the agent left a message. "Captain Brass, this is Special Agent Art Fontaine. I'd like to speak with you, please. It's important. Please call me as soon as you get this message." He left his cell number.

While he waited, Catherine got up and left the room. She returned with two coffees, setting one down on the table next to the agent. He smiled at her gratefully and murmured his thanks.

Catherine's mind had been racing since she had learned that Brass had gone back to the Sunrise Centre Mall. Despite her initial flippancy with Fontaine, she believed that the detective's return there had signaled something very important. Jim was on to something. Somehow, he'd found a trail. Was pursuing some lead.

He'd gone to the costume shop. That was on the second level, she had recalled, they had passed it when they had done their walk through of the mall. Why there? And what kind of lead could Jim even be pursuing? Catherine knew Mobley had taken everything. Jim's case files. His laptop. Even if he had had duplicates of any paperwork, he wouldn't have anything that _they _didn't have. What could Brass have found that the combined efforts of two CSI shifts, and several federal agents, might have missed?

He had spent even more time, Fontaine had told Catherine, at the pet store. It was located on the main level, the second business on the left hand side, next to the dental office. Who had he gone to talk to there? And why? Was the pet shop the link somehow? It was too late now to visit the place and talk to anyone, the mall had been closed up for a while. Catherine imagined that first thing tomorrow Fontaine would want to take a little trip to the costume shop and pet store himself. To see if he could find out just what it was Jim had been doing.

And now Brass had tried to link into the LVPDs computer system, from home. _Why? _What was he looking for? Catherine wondered, if she called him, if Jim might talk to her. Confide in her. Maybe he had something that would help them. Something that would ultimately help _him. _Ecklie would have her head on a platter if he knew she had attempted to contact Brass. But Ecklie could go stuff it.

After the interview with Abe Harrison, Catherine had sought out Cecilia back at the lab. She had filled her in on what had taken place. Ecklie would have a fit about that too, if he knew about it. But Catherine believed that Cecilia had a right to know. She had been a part of this thing from the beginning. And she cared about Jim.

Once Catherine had had time to think about what she had witnessed in Jim's office between he and Annie Kramer, she had come to realize that perhaps she had judged him too hastily. The scientist in her acknowledged that she had taken limited information and then made a giant leap with it. Jaded by her recent experience with Chris, by Sara's experience with Hank not too long ago, and by her own failed marriage and its painful history of betrayal, Catherine had been quick to accept that what she and Cecilia had walked in on had been an intimate expression of a clandestine romantic, sexual relationship.

But there was no _proof_ that that was so. If they were old friends, brought together again in such a serious, life-endangering situation, it wasn't so hard to imagine that Annie might have sought to give solace with a bit of innocent physical comfort. In fact, Catherine could imagine herself in that same scenario with Jim. A comforting hand on his shoulder. Jim taking her hand in a wordless exchange of thanks. Hell the man was being stalked by a cold-blooded serial killer. If that wasn't a situation that called for a little warmth, kindness and human contact, then what was?

And even though Jim had seemed to turn his back on his relationship with Cecilia, Catherine still believed that he cared for the writer. She had witnessed a change in the detective recently, ever since he had begun to spend time with Cecilia. For the first time since she had known him, Jim Brass had seemed truly _happy. _Deep down, Catherine didn't believe that he could just forget what he had with Cecilia so easily, in favour of a roll in the hay with another woman.

Catherine knew she'd been very abrupt with Brass last evening. She felt badly, knowing that she could have been...should have been...more supportive. Even if Jim _did_ have a thing with Annie Kramer, it was nothing to do with her. His love life was essentially no business of hers, even if Cecilia was her friend now too. Catherine owed the detective a lot more compassion and support than she had shown, she realized shamefully. The enormity of what he was dealing with now was something that none of them could truly comprehend. She should have let him know she was there for him...no matter what. It was imperative that she speak to Jim, Catherine decided, even if only to reiterate that.

"I think I'm going to take a bit of a break now," Catherine told Art Fontaine.

The cool grey eyes assessed her, and the criminalist was sure the agent could read her thoughts.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"It's pretty impossible to concentrate on anything else, with what's going on right now, isn't it?" Helen Chang asked sympathetically.

Cecilia looked guiltily away from the corridor and the labs beyond, and back at the swingshift supervisor, who had been explaining the details of a supermarket armed robbery that she was currently working on. "I'm sorry," Cecilia apologized. Helen had been generous enough to agree to sharing her time and her expertise with the writer, and Cecilia knew that she wasn't being appreciative enough of that.

"I'm having a hard enough time keeping my mind on things myself," Helen admitted, reaching to tuck her jet black hair behind her ear. "Everyone knows what's going on, of course. Everyone is a bit on edge, with the Feds here. And of course, everyone is worried about Captain Brass."

The look in Helen's dark, almond-shaped eyes let Cecilia know that the other woman had heard the rumours about a romantic relationship between the writer and the detective.

Time seemed to stretch inexorably tonight, Cecilia thought. The tension and the worry had been heightened enough when she had known what was going on. When she had still been privy to the details of the investigation. The not knowing the status of the case now, increased her anxiety tenfold. Watching from the outside, while others bustled around, their actions pivotal perhaps in the eventual apprehension of the serial killer, was excrutiating. Knowing that even as they raced to find the murderer, he might be closing in on Jim, was a more anguishing plotline than any nocturnal nightmare Cecilia's slumbering subconscious had ever conjured.

She had wondered about Jim's state of mind, after learning of the actions that Sheriff Mobley had taken. Cecilia's disgust at the loathesome sheriff had continued to grow by the hour.

Hearing Jim's voice earlier had been bittersweet. Just having him answer the phone, knowing that, for that moment at least, he was alive and safe, had sent a giant wave of relief washing over her. Cecilia hadn't been sure of how her attempt to reach out to the detective would be received. She had wondered breathlessly, as the phone had begun to ring, whether Annie Kramer would answer it. Cecilia wasn't sure she could handle that. She had thought that there was a good chance, however, that the other woman would be there, with Jim. Giving him the sounding board and the comfort that Cecilia longed to give. Wrapping her arms around him and distracting him from his tribulations with shared passion.

Cecilia had wondered vaguely in the back of her mind, whether her sharing with Jim the details that Catherine had shared with her, would land all three of them in trouble. But she hadn't really cared. The detective deserved to know what was going on, whether he was allowed to be an official part of the investigation or not.

When he had told her hoarsely that there was nothing between he and Annie Kramer, Cecilia had been caught off guard.

_"I want you to know...there's nothing between Annie and I. There hasn't been since New Jersey. There wasn't when I went to L.A., and she only came here as a friend." Jim had sighed raggedly. "It's important to me that you know that. That you believe it." _

Tears had sprang to Cecilia's eyes then. Not so much at the words themselves, not so much at the knowledge that Jim was not really involved with Annie Kramer...but because she heard the depth of the emotion the profession contained. Jim _did _care. He _wanted _her to trust him. To believe him. To believe _in _him. Cecilia could hear that message clearly in his voice. It mattered to him, what she thought about him. Jim cared about how she would feel thinking that he was in a romantic relationship again with a woman Cecilia knew had been such a big part of his past. He _cared._

In spite of his strange and dismissive behaviour, when Jim had summarily turned her out of his life, as though what had been developing between them was inconsequential to him.

But if that had been true, if what had grown between them had meant nothing to Jim, the detective would not have cared _what_ Cecilia thought about he and Annie. Or how she felt. If she was as irrelevent to him as he had lead her to believe that day at his apartment...her prescence in his life nothing more than a temporary distraction, and now a potentially dangerous one...then it wouldn't have mattered to Jim what Cecilia believed about he and Annie. He wouldn't have felt it necessary to try to clear up her misconceptions. _"It's important to me that you know that. That you believe it."_

Cecilia hadn't been able to stop thinking about their conversation. Perhaps Jim hadn't distanced himself from her because he didn't really care about her. Perhaps...he had done it because he really _did _care. The more she considered that possibility, the more it made sense to her. Everything she had come to learn about Jim Brass had revealed that he defined himself in the role of protector. It was a responsibility that he took seriously. The safety of others was of paramount importance to him. Jim had made that his life's work.

Maybe it hadn't been concern for _his own _safety that had caused the detective to react so strongly and uncharacteristically that morning. Maybe...maybe he had been worried about _her._

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Once again, it was no problem for Brass to slip past the surveillance team, seated behind the wheel of Glen Roarke's teal Sunfire. He had knocked on Glen's door, knowing that the man often kept late nights when he was in the middle of a new creation, and found his neighbour in the early stages of inebriation. Glen had been in a locquacious mood, insisting that Jim listen to his tale of misery. The artist was convinced that the painting he had been working on stunk. His muse had fled him, his talent had waned. His career was surely over.

Brass had commiserated, tried to give reassurance, and then asked to borrow the car again. Admitting woefully that he was in no condition to be driving tonight anyways, and therefore in no need of it himself, Roarke had pressed the keys into the detective's outstretched hand. The artist had commented that it was kind of cheap of the LVPD, if they were going to keep his sedan in the shop all day, not to have given the Captain a loaner. Brass had agreed, thanked his neighbour for his generosity for the second time that day, and hastened away.

The night had cooled considerably, and Jim left the air conditioning off, unrolling the windows and allowing the breeze to circulate through the vehicle. He left the radio off as well, too focused on what he was about to do to be able to take any pleasure from music right now. In another ten minutes, he would be pulling onto Dean Sturney's street. Ten more minutes, and he would finally face his adversary.

It would be ironic, Brass thought, if while he was enroute to Sturney's, the other man was on his way to _his _place, ready now to put into action whatever plan he had contrived to end Jim's life under the guise of an accident. If Sturney had happened to be observing Brass' place, as the FBI agents were doing at this moment, he would be watching for the familiar sedan...not the teal green Sunfire. It would be the stuff that a dark comedy would be made of, and Jim was surprised to feel his lips curl in a smile.

The smile quickly faded. His gut churned with ice water. The next quarter of an hour, could be the most important of his life.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Jim, it's me. Are you there? If you are, pick up. Please." Catherine waited expectantly, her apprehension increasing with each passing moment.

She thought of Denny Martens, mowed down by the stolen SUV, his neck snapped, his body crushed, his intestines spilling into the quiet side street. She thought of Elliott Keeth, his big frame consumed by crimson flames, the skin and flesh peeling off his body as the intensity of the heat reduced them to ash. She thought of Joe Takei, his face purple, tongue lolling, while the garrotte around his neck dug mercilessly into his windpipe. Each vision was horrifically realistic, even though Catherine hadn't actually witnessed the aftermath of each detective's death.

Not just their deaths...their _murders. _Cunningly designed to look like accidents. _That _was the kind of demon they were up against. _That _was the threat that Jim Brass faced now. Where was Jim? He had to be there? _Why wasn't he answering?_

Despite her valiant efforts to shift her thoughts, Catherine couldn't help but imagine Jim alone in his loft with the killer. What if somehow the maniac they sought had found a way to enter Brass' apartment, undetected? He had clearly done it elsewhere before. First with Joe Takei, and then later with Elliott Keeth. Jim might have more forewarning than the others had had, but what if, despite all of his precautions, the killer had found a way in?

What would he have planned for Brass? Catherine frightened herself with the realization of the deviousness of her _own _mind. If it was her stalking Jim, she realized with a chill, she would stage his death as a suicide. A rogue cop, disgraced, being investigated by his peers. Facing not only the loss of his job, but potentially the loss of his freedom with criminal charges pending. Would people question it too deeply, if facing such a bleak future...that cop decided to eat the business end of a revolver?

Catherine felt physically ill for a moment, battling back the nauseau that threatened her. There had to be a logical explanation for why Jim wasn't answering his phone. There could be any number of reasons. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he'd turned off the ringer, simply seeking his solitude.

There was an extended beep, indicating that her time to leave a message had expired. Brass still hadn't answered. For one of two reasons. He didn't want to. Or he couldn't. Catherine disconnected. She stood there, gripping her cell phone in her hand, not knowing what to do next.

The agents on surveillance outside Jim's apartment hadn't called in to alert Fontaine that the detective had tried to leave the apartment again. Was it possible that Jim had found a way to get around them? Catherine knew that Brass could be incredibly resourceful. Motivated by whatever lead he seemed to be chasing, could he have somehow slipped out past the surveillance team?

She needed to know what angle Jim was working. What had he tried to access the department's computer system for? There was one person in the lab who might be able to help her answer that question.

Catherine strode determinedly down the hall, and into the AV lab. "Archie," she said earnestly, her gentian blue eyes bright, "I really, really need you."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass parked down the street, cutting the engine and sitting in darkness. The neighbourhood was quiet. There were lights on inside Dean Sturney's small bungalow, in at least two of the rooms that he could see from the front of the house. One was on at the far end, a whitish glow behind a small, frosted pane that the detective assumed was a bathroom. The other had a more subdued yellow cast, shining from the large, main window that would be the livingroom. That illumination probably came from a table lamp.

By all appearances _someone_ was home. _Did Sturney live alone? _Jim wondered. According to the profile, it was probable that he did. Sociopaths didn't tend to form permanent relationships with other people. It wasn't likely that there would be a girlfriend or a roommate. He would have to proceed with caution though. It would be inexcusable to allow an innocent bystander to be harmed during his capture of Sturney.

Brass could hear the heaviness of his breathing in the enclosed interior of the car. Christ, he sounded like he'd just done a couple of fast laps around the department's one mile track. His palms were slick with sweat, he realized, as he released them from the steering wheel. He touched the .44 Magnum at his side, reassuring himself that it was there.

_Now or never. _Brass stepped out of the Sunfire, and began the short walk to Sturney's front door.


	50. Chapter 50

_Just another short one. This part of the story seems to be lending itself to shorter chapters, I hope that's okay. I'll just post them as they come in their entirity, no matter the length. Thank you again for the awesome encouragement. Cathy._

Chapter 50

"Okay, I can tell that Captain Brass tried to access the system, because they flagged his password," Archie explained to Catherine, sitting in front of the screen and pointing to a log-in entry. "But I have no idea what section it was he was planning to enter, or what he was going to search for, because he never got past the sign-in stage. Since the password had been canceled from this end, access was denied. There is no history to research. Sorry, Catherine," the audio-visual tech said with sincere regret.

Catherine sighed heavily and ran her fingers through her strawberry blonde hair. "Okay, what about before that? Can you find out what he had used the system for _prior _to that?" Perhaps that might give Catherine an idea what angle Jim was working.

"Yeah, I can do that," Archie assured her, eager to try to help.

She waited while his fingers danced over the keyboard. Catherine's anxiety was growing by the minute. Her inability to reach Brass had opened a floodgate to her worst fears. She couldn't recall the last time she had felt so _driven. _

"Okay, he was on the system last night," Archie told her and the criminalist held her breath. "He used two databases. The DMV, and the Clark County criminal records division. He ran a search on these four names. Ian Gracie. Abe Harrison. Adrian Cortez. Ron Kizinski."

Four men who had worked at the Sunrise Centre Mall Wells Fargo location at the time of the Holiday Murders. The current bank manager, the teller, the loans officer and the retired security guard. It was this search that had uncovered Harrison's prior arrest for domestic assault, and which had caused them to turn their spotlights on the teller. She and Cecilia had discussed all of this in Jim's office last night with he and Annie Kramer.

_That _was the last time Brass had accessed the system? What from among the information he had retrieved then, had caused the detective to focus again on the mall? What had drawn him to the costume shop and the pet store? "Can you recreate those searches and bring up exactly whatever it was Brass found last night?" Catherine urged.

Archie nodded and set to work. It took only moments for him to find and split screen for her the results of the searches the detective had made the previous evening.

Catherine studied the limited information. There was nothing there that jumped out at her. Other than Harrison's dropped assault charge, and a plethora of speeding infractions against Gracie, there was nothing of particular interest. If Brass was running a new lead, it hadn't come from the information he had accessed last night.

Another possibility occured to the blonde. It was a stretch, but it was worth checking out. Perhaps, upon discovering that his own password was now inactive, Jim had used _another _one to get into the system. That of a colleague. Even though passwords were supposed to be kept secret, known only to the user, the reality was that sometimes when you were working closely with someone else, you either accidentally learned theirs, or in the atmosphere of trust and comaraderie that developed, there simply came an occasion where they happened to share it with you.

There was nothing terribly clandestine about what the passwords were used for, and nothing really nefarious that someone could do even if they knew a co-worker's sign-on. She knew Warrick Brown's password, after all, Catherine rationalized. He had shared it with her one time when he had called in and needed her to access a file he had created for a case he was working on. And she was pretty sure that Sara had unintentionally observed her entering her own one night. _Technically_, you were supposed to change your password if you felt it might have been compromised. But the truth was that Catherine didn't know anyone who actually did.

Maybe Brass was privy to another detective's password, and finding himself shut out of the system, had decided that the potential pros of using it outweighed the violation.

"Is there a way for you to tell if Brass got into the system using someone else's password, that was still active?" Catherine asked hopefully.

Archie smiled. "Yeah, actually there might be. If I can backtrack and find out the IP address of the computer that he was using when he tried to enter his own password, if he subsequently entered another valid password using the same computer, theoretically I can trace that." He grinned. Archie loved a challenge.

"Do it," Catherine instructed, hearing the nervous quaver in her voice.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Grissom's stare made Hodges uneasy.

"So, uh, quite a lot happening lately, huh?" David mumbled, looking away from the supervisor's sky blue gaze. "I, uh, heard about what happened to Captain Brass. The suspension and all. Gee, that's pretty heavy." He tugged self-consciously at the hem of his blue lab coat.

Grissom continued to look at him wordlessly.

"And, uh, I see that the sheriff has put Conrad Ecklie in charge of the investigation," Hodges continued, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets. "I'm sure that's no reflection on _you _or anything. You know? I mean, I can sort of see why Sheriff Mobley might think...with his history on the original murder cases...why Conrad might be, uh...might have a different, you know, perspective to contribute." He felt as if the heat was stifling even though the lab room was climate controlled.

Hodges had been wallowing in guilt ever since he had come into the building this evening and discovered the events that had unfolded since that morning. The correlation between his conversation with Ecklie last night and what had ensued since, could not be denied. Hodges knew it wasn't simply a coincidence. He honestly hadn't realized that he had said anything to the dayshift supervisor that the other man hadn't already known. He realized now how Ecklie had played him. Hodges felt like an idiot.

The lab tech could see the knowledge of his unwitting betrayal on Gil Grissom's face. Would the nightshift supervisor think Hodges' slip had been deliberate? Did it matter, really? Or would the damage be severe enough that motive would be irrelevent?

"Well, hopefully now we can all just work together and get this thing solved. Huh? That's what really matters. Right?" Hodges knew that his smile came out more as a grimace, and he was unable to meet Grissom's eyes. He thought longingly of the forensic scientist's obvious approval the other night, after Hodges had isolated and identified the traces of didanosine from the letter Captain Brass had received. He had hoped that, for the first time, real respect and an honest working relationship might be beginning to develop between he and his co-workers. How he had savoured that with pride.

And now everything was ruined. He might as well look for another job, Hodges thought miserably. The ostracism that was sure to follow would certainly be worse than anything he had ever encountered before. He only realized after Grissom had left the room again, that the other man had never uttered a sound.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Dean Sturney was listed as the registered owner of a white, newer model VW bug. There was no car in the driveway, but it could be parked in the small, cement block garage. Easing up to the garage door, and praying that Sturney didn't have outdoor security lights triggered by motion detection, Brass peered through the small glass window into the shadowed interior. There was a car there, he could make out it's form. It had the unique domed shape of the Beetle.

Everything pointed to Sturney being home. Brass' heart jackhammered in his chest as he crept closer to the bungalow's front door. Standing on the small porch, he could look through the livingroom window. Light flickered, creating odd shadows. There was a television on. Some kind of nature programme. Discovery channel, or maybe Animal Planet. Jim found himself thinking about Nick Stokes. The dark-haired CSI loved those kinds of shows.

_Concentrate. _He couldn't allow himself to be distracted, not for a moment. Edging nearer the wrought iron rail that encircled the porch, and leaning over it, Brass got a better look into the home's interior. There was a blue, three-seater sofa set against a wall, facing the window, currently unoccupied. A matching armchair was angled so that the detective could only see it's high back and part of an upholstered arm. He could just make out the back of a head. Someone wearing a baseball cap was sitting in the chair, watching the tube. _Sturney? _

Brass prayed that Sturney wouldn't get up just then and look out. He hoped that there was no Gladys living on the street. No over zealous block captain from Neighbourhood Watch. No one wondering why that strange man was skulking around Mr. Sturney's place. His mouth felt dry, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth.

He swallowed hard, detaching it, and trying to work up some saliva. Jim unholstered the Magnum. He took off the safety and let the gun hang at the end of his right arm. It felt so heavy. _Had he loaded it? _Of course he had, there was no reason to second guess himself. He had done this hundreds of times before. Apprehended a suspect. This time was no different. _Except that he knew it was._

For a moment Brass reconsidered calling for back-up. By the time anyone arrived, it would all be over. He could get a waiting black and white to haul Sturney down to the station. But what if there was a patrol in the area, the next street over? What if they got here _too _soon? With lights flashing and sirens piercing the night. Alerting Sturney before Brass had a chance to make an arrest. Tipping the balance and removing the element of surprise that the detective had on his side. He couldn't take the risk. There was no choice, he had to go this one alone.

Should he try to enter through the front, or go around back? He wasn't familiar with the layout of Sturney's abode. The killer had the advantage of being on home turf. To come in the back way and try to navigate up to the front of the house left too many unknown variables. Better to enter through the front, if he could.

There was no screen door. Just the heavy steel entrance door. A multi-paned window insert was mercifully uncovered by blinds or curtains. Brass pressed his forehead against it, and peered into the house. There was a small foyer and then immediately to the right...no walls or partitions...was the livingroom area.

He certainly didn't intend to knock and announce his prescence. In the inside pocket of his jacket, were the tools that would allow him to jimmy the lock, if need be. Brass had picked up a few tricks from the criminal elements over the years. His left hand reached out with mesmerizing slowness, for the brass knob. As his fingers closed around it, he gave it a slight turn and felt it yield beneath his grip. _It was unlocked. _

Lady Luck, it seemed, had decided to alight on his shoulder tonight. How long, Brass wondered, would she rest there? Could he cajole her into accompanying him inside and blanketing him with her prescence until he had Sturney in custody?

_Does Sturney have a dog?_ Jim's knees felt weak. The guy seemed to have a thing for animals. For dogs especially. Millions of American households had a furry, four-legged, canine companion and protector. Would a sociopath seek out a relationship with an animal that he was incapable of forming with a human being? And even if Sturney would just as soon string up and torture a pet as allow one to curl up on his lap, he might still see the wisdom in having that kind of live-in security system for the bargain price of four bucks worth of dog chow a week.

The last thing Brass needed was Cujo rushing up to greet him, barking and snarling, faithfully alerting his master to the prescence of an intruder.

There was a soft click as the door opened, one that Jim knew would be inaudible over the sounds of the television. Then he was stepping over the threshold. And finally, Brass was inside Dean Sturney's house.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Okay, this is weird," Archie commented thoughtfully, frowning at the screen. "There _was_ activity from that IP address. But I can't seem to isolate it. If Captain Brass got into the department's system, he didn't do it using a registered password." He swivelled his head to look up at Catherine.

"What do you mean?" she pressed.

"Nothing matches any known password on file. But it looks like someone _did _get into the system, and they came in through Captain Brass' computer. But I don't know what they accessed. I have to try to figure out how they did it first." Archie rubbed his chin. "I didn't know he was some kind of techno geek," he continued, admiration in his tone.

"Brass?" Catherine voiced her surprise. "He's not," she stated firmly. _Was their serial killer? _she wondered worriedly. "Archie, is it possible for you to isolate it? Is there a way to do it at all?"

The tech shrugged. "Yeah, probably. I think I could figure it out eventually. It could take hours though," he replied honestly. _Days even, _he thought, but he kept that to himself.

Catherine gritted her teeth, glancing towards the door, watching for Special Agent Fontaine. "We don't have hours," she told him soberly.

Archie could sense the gravity of the situation. "I'll do my best," he promised. "There is one thing I can try first. If there _was _a secondary password, somehow piggybacking onto the one registered to the Captain...and it looks like there was...it could be a variation of the first. People tend to be creatures of habit, we like the familiar, and a similar password would be easier to remember. We know Captain Brass' cancelled password. I'll have the computer run every possible sequence recombining the numbers and letters of the original." He began to type into the keyboard. "That might save us some time."

"Thanks, Archie," Catherine said gratefully.

While the computer tech worked, the criminalist tried to call Brass at home once more. As before, she got the answering machine. Listening to the recorded message yet again, Catherine felt as though she could scream. _Oh hell, Jim! Where are you? What are you doing?_

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass listened for the sound of padded feet and clipped nails scurrying over the linoleum, and he tensed for the charge. But there was nothing. Evidently Sturney didn't have a dog. One more small break in Jim's favour.

The detective noted the shiny, brown flooring underneath, inexpensive and easy to maintain. He observed the pale walls, builder's beige, nothing to inidicate the personality of the man who lived here. There was nothing boring or ordinary about Dean Sturney though, Jim knew. He didn't need to see blood red walls and dismembered corpses as artwork, to understand what kind of maniac dwelt beneath this roof.

Jim left the door opened, not wanting to risk the distraction of the act of closing it. Additonally, he was afraid that while it had been quiet upon opening, the hinges might squeak when it was shut again.

Brass held his gun at waist height, his finger on the trigger. He could hear the narrator of the t.v. programme, cultured British tones explaining about the plight of beached Pilot whales and the mystery of the carnage. He could see right through to the livingroom. Sturney, engrossed in the show, was unaware that anyone had entered his home. He didn't realize that Jim was less than a dozen feet away now.

The detective wanted to be closer before calling out Sturney's name. He wanted a better view of the man, to be able to see Sturney's hands, to be able to watch the man's movements and to anticipate any possible counter attack.

The soft soles of his leather shoes were soundless as Brass began to move away from the door, keeping his line of vision on the baseball cap that peeked above the back of the blue chair. Keeping his gun trained on the same spot. Raising it now to chest height, he crossed his hands at the wrists, and laid his right over his left, for support. The blood drummed through his veins, pounding in his ears. Perspiration dotted the craggy folds of his forehead.

Jim felt, more than heard the movement of the door behind him. Too late he sensed that someone had been _behind _it. Tucked against the corner of the wall. Hidden from sight. Before his brain could even send the commands to his body to turn, there was a sharp crack, an explosion of pain at the base of his skull, and then Brass was spiralling to meet the blackness.


	51. Chapter 51

His first coherent thought was, _'Oh, hell, how much did I have to drink?'_

Brass' head was throbbing and his gut spasmed raunchily. Then he remembered, and the detective struggled to raise himself to a sitting position. Two ice blue orbs observed him with what would Jim could only define as amusement.

"I guess you're probably wondering why you're still alive."

Brass found himself staring down the blue steel barrel of the .44 Magnum Redhawk. Dean Sturney was crouched on the floor just a few feet away. But far enough that Brass knew he'd be pumped full of lead before he had the chance to even attempt wrestling the gun from Sturney. The killer cocked his head at him, then grinning rose to his feet and stood staring down at the cop with derision.

So this was _him_. The monster who had killed all of those women. The one who had bested the unsupecting Martens, Keeth and Takei. His gauntness made him appear even shorter than five seven. The faded denim jeans and white t-shirt hung loosesly from his frame. His skin had an unhealthy grey pallor. A waxen sheen. And it was tight over his cheekbones and chin, though loose on his neck, like the wattles of an old man. The knuckles of both hands looked swollen...arthritic...though Jim didn't think that was the cause. There was a cold sore on the left corner of Sturney's upper lip. His pale eyes looked bright, feverish...although that could just be from excitement, Brass decided.

Jim closed his eyes for a moment. He had the mother of all headaches. This had to be worse than any migraine Gil Grissom had ever had to deal with. Gingerly, he reached to touch the back of his neck, feeling the dampness there. He pulled his hand away, observing the sticky, scarlet smear. He looked around, wondering what Sturney had hit him with. On the floor by the door was a cast iron frying pan. Simple, but Brass could attest to its effectiveness.

"Do you want to know why I didn't kill you right away?" Sturney asked, his voice light with a good humour that chilled the detective. When Brass didn't answer, Sturney's lips pressed together and the warmth slipped from his pale eyes. "Fine then. You'll find out soon enough."

Brass judged that the serial killer had just left him where he'd fallen. He glanced further into the livingroom, towards the chair that he now had a clear side view of. There was a body pillow propped up there, with a ball cap resting on the top, only the hat visible from behind. Jim heard himself suck in the air against his teeth in self-disgust.

"I have to say, I was kind of disappointed at your naivite," Sturney said mockingly. "After you'd come this far, it was just too easy. I had hoped you'd be a bit more of a challenge. Things were looking promising there for a while. When I followed you to the mall tonight, and saw you go into the pet store to talk with Phil, I have to say I was thrown for a loop."

The killer watched the detective's eyes widen. "You had no idea I was there, did you?" Sturney queried. "Neither did those incompetents who've been following you all day. I walked right by one of them, even looked at him, and he just stared right through me. I have to say that as a taxpayer I'm not very impressed with the quality of law enforcement my hard earned money has secured at the federal level."

Brass wasn't sure if he was better off trying to engage the killer, or by just keeping his mouth shut. Every minute that he stayed alive increased his chances of getting out of this predicament eventually. Not that the odds of that were looking too good either way. He had lost the element of surprise. He had lost his weapon. He was having a hard time just keeping his vision focused and trying to push back the black veil that kept threatening to settle over his consciousness again. And no one had any idea where he was, or even that he wasn't still settled in for the night at the loft.

Jim felt cold at the knowledge that Sturney had been there, at the mall. One step ahead of him, even as the detective had been closing the net. He wondered how long he had been unconscious, and tried to glance surrepitiously at his watch.

"You were only out for about twenty minutes," Sturney told him matter-of-factly. "I actually hit you a bit harder than I intended to. To be honest, I was a bit perturbed, you bothering me at home like this." The blue eyes narrowed, the pupils constricting then widening again. "But I'm willing to play things out this way, since that's what you wanted."

Dean Sturney stared down at the detective. "I guess that makes you special. Since with the other three I was in total control. I am willing to give credit where credit is due though. You have forced my hand. But it really doesn't matter anymore. Not now. Not at this point." Sturney sighed. "The game is at its end. I'm tired now. As you can probably see, my health is failing. Everything has come full circle, you're the last, and once you're dead, I can finally rest."

"The Videx just not doin' it for you any more?" Brass asked with mock sympathy of his own.

Sturney's face contorted first with shock, and then with rage. He let out a roar, drawing back his right leg and kicking out suddenly at the detective. The blow would have landed in Brass' face, but he pulled back, turning slightly, raising his arms to protect himself, and instead the killer's shoed foot connected with Jim's shoulder. The detective grunted in pain nevertheless.

The killer's hands trembled as he aimed the gun at Brass. "How!" he demanded, his voice quavering. "How did you know about the drug!" Sturney shrilled.

Brass held the stare unflinchingly, remaining mute.

Sturney cocked the trigger. "Answer me or you die now."

"There were traces of the powder on the letter you sent me," Brass replied quietly. "Forensic science has come a long way in the last ten years." It felt good to have gotten one of his own in, to have affected Sturney that way. So good in fact, that Jim had to bite down on the inner flesh of his mouth to stifle a smirk. The satisfaction was worth the ache in his shoulder.

The killer began to pace, short strides back and forth across the livingroom. He kept the gun on Brass at all times. Sturney was frustrated. He truly was willing to abandon the plans he had had for the Captain's demise. To just shoot him and be done with it. But he couldn't kill the other man. Not yet. Not until Brass gave him what he needed. Sturney couldn't understand why he _hadn't _yetIt had been so easy with the other three.

The killer stopped and regarded his prey. "After all this time," Dean said thoughtfully, "how did you find me? I mean, my identity. How did you know it was _me_?" His face was animated with his curiosity.

Brass decided that perhaps keeping Sturney talking really was in his best interests. "Among Beth Marchison's things was a receipt for the purchase of a Maltese puppy. You sold it to her the week before you killed her. I recognized the similarity in your signature, from the handwriting on the letters you'd sent."

Sturney stared at him agape. Then he threw back his head and laughed. "That's ingenious! Who would have thought a dead woman's nine year old sales receipt would have been preserved all of these years? Or that such an unremarkable detective as yourself would have been sharp enough to make the connection?" Dean moved to the chair, and picked up the baseball cap. Holding it in his left hand, the gun in his right, the dark-haired man made a sweeping bow. "My hat's off to you, Detective!" Then he bent over, chortling with delight at his own pun.

Brass didn't know what to make of Sturney. The detective just watched the other man warily.

Dean eventually stopped laughing and settled himself on the sofa. Motioning with his gun towards the chair, he said to Brass, "Why don't you have a seat, and we'll get comfortable. I'll tell you what. As a reward for your diligence, I'm going to let you ask me whatever you want to know. Because I'm sure you have questions, right Detective? Why? How? All of those little details that have escaped you.

"When I'm tired of them, I'll just shoot you. But until then, you just ask away. You might as well go to your grave having the satisfaction of clearing up all those unanswered questions."

"That's generous of you, Sturney," Brass answered sardonically, raising an eyebrow. The detective managed to get to his feet, gritting his teeth against the dizziness. He'd be damned if he was going to flop down on his face in front of this guy. The edges of his sight were dark, and his legs were wobbly, but Brass forced himself to walk the several steps to the chair, before collapsing into it.

"I'm surprised," Dean admitted then, ignoring the gibe, "that you haven't tried to convince me that killing you won't accomplish anything, and that hoardes of other cops will be beating down my door at any moment. Of course, we both know that would be a lie, and such an act would just reek of desperation. Still, I was sure it was the first thing you'd do."

Brass shrugged. "I think it 's fairly obvious by now that I came alone." His dark gaze held Sturney's. "But that doesn't mean that they aren't going to catch up to you eventually. It's inevitable now."

"I did wonder, at first, when I knew you'd be coming, what we were going to do about that added equation of the FBI agents. But you solved that beautifully on your own, Jim. Do you mind if I call you Jim?" Sturney asked facetiously. "Switching cars was brilliant. In fact, I almost didn't realize it was you out there. You might have caught me off guard after all. I expected you would be here, once you spoke to Phil Hayter, and once you went by my old apartment. Once I knew for sure that somehow you'd discovered my identity.

"I also knew you'd want to come alone though. Some macho _Lone Ranger_ thing. Revenge for your fallen comrades."

The muscle in Brass' jaw twitched at the smugness in Sturney's tone.

The killer continued. "I figured you'd go for a little drive and give those agents the slip before stopping by to pay me a visit. But you went one step better. You drove right out under their noses. Pretty ballsy, Detective. Pretty smart too. Borrowing your neighbour's car. That is your neighbour's car, right?" Sturney smiled. "I recognize it, I've seen it going in and out of your building's parking before." Brass wondered how long Sturney had been watching him.

"Still, it took me a minute to make the connection, and to realize that it was _you_," Dean went on. "Kudos. You're probably right that they will catch up with me eventually. But as I already said, it won't matter by then. You'll be dead. Mission accomplished, and all that." For a moment, Sturney just looked sad and weary. Then he leaned back into the sofa, cradling the gun on his lap, and said, "Ask away."

"Okay," Jim said agreeably. He didn't have a hope in hell of getting out of this alive, he accepted that now. And he _did_ want answers. Maybe the knowing would help soothe his spirit in the afterlife. "Why? Why did you kill all those people?"

"Because I could," Sturney said expressionlessly. "Because they deserved it." He tilted his head. "It's a two part answer, really. I killed the women for one reason. I killed the three detectives for another." His lips curved humourlessly. "You can ask about one or the other, but not both. Your choice."

Brass could imagine why Sturney had killed the women. For all of the reasons that the profilers had suggested. A traumatic childhood rampant with abuse. A love/hate relationship with his mother or other maternal figure. Confused or frustrated sexuality. But why _had _Sturney killed Martens, Keeth and Takei? Why did he want to kill Jim?

"Why did you kill the cops?" Brass asked. "Any why make their murders look like accidents?" He wasn't really convinced that Sturney would be straight with him. Or that the other man wouldn't just decide to put a bullet between Jim's eyes instead. But he had to ask.

"Because all of this is their fault! _Your _fault!" Sturney replied, and the sudden force of his petulance and condemnation confused Brass.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Okay, I think we've got something here," Archie told Catherine hopefully. "It looks like we've managed to unlock the password. And it seems that it _was_ a variation of the first. Which is really lucky for us."

Catherine leaned in behind the A/V tech, over his shoulder, so that their heads were close. Hers fair, his dark. Both the sapphire eyes and the onyx ones were fixed on the screen. Catherine was sure that Archie must be able to hear her heart thumping against her ribcage.

"It's not going to be as easy to determine what parts of the system Captain Brass accessed under this sign-in, as it was with the first," Archie cautioned. "Because of the way it's coded. It was designed to avoid detection. But nothing can _truly _be invisible. We just have to be aware of what we're looking for, and now I am."

Catherine could only nod.

"I think I can get it, in a few more minutes," Archie predicted.

_"Godspeed," _she whispered.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"You know about the Videx," Sturney went on agitatedly. "You know what it is. It's an antiviral drug defined as a _nucleoside reverse transcriptase inhibitor. _Sounds pretty impressive, doesn't it? And you are well aware of what it's used for. To treat human immunodeficiency virus infection. _HIV_. The precursor to AIDS." Dean clenched his free hand into a fist. "The drug cocktails aren't working. My health has been visibly failing in the last several months. It's just a matter of time. You see, it doesn't matter if they apprehend me now. I've already been given the death sentence." His lips curled in a sneer.

Brass wasn't sure how exactly that had anything to do with the LVPD, but heck it just went to show you that everyone blamed everything on the cops these days.

Sturney could see that the detective was clueless. "It was one of those _freaking skanky bitches_ who gave me this disease!" Dean shouted. "Probably that stupid black cow, the one who was a hooker! And she was the first...if I hadn't gotten started...if I'd never put her out of the miserable existence that passed as her life...then everything would have been different. I might not have killed _anyone. _I might be well and healthy with a long life ahead of me.

"If you stupid cops had just done your damned _jobs_..." Sturney accused, "if you'd picked her up, had her off the streets that night...maybe...maybe all of this could have been avoided!"

Brass was failing to see the logic in the killer's rant.

Sturney sighed. "Okay, so technically she wasn't the _first_ person who got what they had coming to them after I helped Fate along a little," he relented. "That would have been the useless, pathetic whore who called herself my mother."

Jim could hear Phil Hayter's voice, discussing his former employee. _"I don't know why he took a job here, really," Hayter continued. "He mentioned one time that he had some money. Some insurance settlement. His mom died in a fire or something."_

"A patrol cop picked her up that night, you know," Sturney told Brass now. "The pro. Jada Miller. She was soliciting. I'd been watching her, waiting to make a move. When I saw him put her in the car, I figured that was a sign. That this was the wrong path to go down. That this was not my destiny. It could all have ended right then and there.

"But do you know what he did? Took her around the corner, got himself a little freebie, and let her go again!" Sturney's voice was rife with his indignation. "And don't tell me an officer of the law would never do something like that," he added derisively, waiting for the detective to defend the honour of the brotherhood.

In fact, Brass fully believed Sturney's version of events. No one knew better than he did, that there were good cops and bad cops. Just because someone strapped on a gun and a badge, it didn't make them any less imperfect than the rest of humanity they pledged to serve and protect. No one passed out halos and wings when the rookies took their oaths.

"When he let her out again, without enforcing justice...without making her have to answer for having broken the laws of the land...he set in motion everything that has happened since," Dean remarked quietly. "He condemned us _all_ to death. Miller. The other women. Your fellow detectives." Sturney tilted his head and stared at Brass. "You. Me."

_Okay, _Brass thought, _that's some pretty twisted logic. _But he was dealing with a crazy man here. What did he expect?

"So because that patrol cop didn't take Jada Miller in and book her for solicitation, you killed Denny Martens, Elliott Keeth, Joe Takei, and you're going to kill me." Brass took some solace from saying aloud the men's full names. It was as though by doing so, he could in some way bring them all back now, to face their killer. And he drew a strange comfort from feeling that...somehow...their spirits were here with him.

Jim wasn't a big believer in ghosts, or any of that channeled souls hocus pocus or anything like that. But it was as though by holding onto their memories, a small piece of each of them was inside him. He drew a strength from that. One that allowed him to face the inevitability of his own death, curiously devoid of fear.

Sturney ran thin fingers back through his thick, dark hair. "Well, not exactly. I'm not surprised you're too stupid to understand. That your thought processes are that simplistic," he spoke disparagingly. "I gave you _three _chances to catch me. Miller. Hegel. Marchison. And not only did you fail miserably in the attempt...you morons killed an _innocent man_ and then gave him all the credit that was rightfully _mine."_

"So that's the _why_," the killer announced. "Do you want to know the _how_? That's the really fun part." Dean Sturney smiled with remembered enjoyment.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Okay, here it is." Archie grinned triumphantly. "Captain Brass went into the DMV database. Department of Motor Vehicles."

Catherine expelled the breath she didn't even realize she had been holding. "And...do you know what he was looking for?"

The tech's long fingers flew over the keyboard. There was a certain grace in the movement, Catherine observed, and she wondered if Archie also played the piano. "Here you go."

_Dean Allan Sturney, _Catherine read silently. "Did Brass do anything else while signed in under that password?" she asked.

"No, that's it," Archie replied. "This was the only thing he searched."

_Who was Sturney? Why was Brass interested in him? _Catherine reached past the tech and hit the zoom button. Sturney's driver's license headshot filled the screen. His light-coloured eyes were striking, they seemed to bore through her.

According to his birthdate, Dean Sturney was only thirty-five, but he looked older than that. He was painfully thin, anorexic even. He looked ill. In fact...Catherine's blood ran cold...he looked like someone battling AIDS.

_"Oh my God," _she whispered, horror-struck.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"I chose Detective Takei first, because he was the idiot who killed Todd Juneau. Effectively ending the investigation. Perhaps if there had been a trial, even a bunch of incompetents like the Las Vegas Police Department might have realized their mistake." Sturney pouted accusingly at Brass. "The first time I snuck into his home, and discovered his nasty little secret, I knew that it was the perfect death for him." Dean grinned slyly.

Brass tried to calculate the distance between the chair where he sat and the sofa where Sturney was. Gradually, the wooziness he had been feeling was dissipating. Unfortunately, the pain at the base of his skull was getting worse. But Jim figured he could put up with the pain. It was the dizziness that would have precluded his ever being able to make a move on the killer.

As long as he could see clearly, and as long as he felt he could even stand on his feet and move without keeling over, Brass thought there was a chance to get Sturney. A moment's distraction, Sturney letting down his guard for just a few seconds, might be all that the detective would need. He let Sturney talk, trying to appear weaker than he was, while in reality Jim sat coiled to seize any opportunity that should come.

"It was kind of pathetic really, how easy it was to get into Detective Takei's home," Sturney said with a shake of his dark head. "He actually had taken the time to get really good locks. Deadbolts. Security bars on the basement windows. But all I had to do was climb over a six foot fence into the dog pen, and then through the doggy door into the kitchen. That golden retriever Takei had wasn't much of a watchdog," Dean laughed. "I brought him a nice sirloin tip, and he stopped barking. I told him what a good dog he was, and petted him, and he just sat there with his tongue lolling out, when I crawled through into the house."

Brass didn't find the same humour in the recollection that Sturney seemed to.

"I found his little den of inequity in a windowless room in the basement. He had quite the little contraption rigged up. It took me a few minutes to even realize what the damned thing was," Sturney said with distaste. "When I came back the next time, it was simple enough to jam the device. I just waited in the laundry room until Takei got home from work. I guess he'd had a stressful day, and need a bit of a _release._

"He didn't see me at first. I stood off to the side, watching as he flailed around. I could _smell _his panic, once he realized the failsafe was jammed. When I stepped out in front of him...ah...you should have seen the look on his face. It was priceless! For a split second, I think he forgot all about the shame of being caught naked, with a rope around his neck, pleasuring himself, because I believe that for that fraction in time he thought that I would be his salvation.

"Of course, then he understood. I could see it, in his eyes." _The fear. How Dean had savoured that, drinking it in, watching the other man grapple with the realization of his mortality. _

Brass's stomache rebelled, not because of his injuries this time, but because of the cold pleasure on Sturney's face and the light, anecdotal way he spoke of a human being's murder. The detective gritted his teeth and swallowed hard.

"It didn't take long, and well, you know what they say, time flies when you're having fun." The killer cackled at the queasy look on Brass' face. "But still, for that minute or so..." Dean winked. "Sometimes I dream about it."

_You bastard, _Jim thought.

"And then," Sturney said, his voice low and reverent, "_and then there were three_."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Somehow Brass had identified the serial killer. Catherine couldn't begin to imagine how, but he had. She was as certain of that, as she had ever been sure of anything in her life.

And the reason Jim wasn't answering his phone was because he wasn't there. Knowing who the murderer was, there could be only one place Jim Brass would go. And, Catherine knew frantically, he would go alone.

The criminalist knew that she should report this to Special Agent Fontaine immediately. She also knew what would happen to Jim if they knew what he was doing. His career really would be over. But what if he encountered a problem trying to take Sturney into custody? Brass might need back-up.

Catherine would go to Sturney's. Take over from Jim. She would call P.D. for assistance once Sturney was apprehended, and _after _she had convinced Brass to get the hell away from there. And once everything had broken, and things had died down again, Sheriff Mobley might have cooled off enough to reinstate the detective.

Brass had been the one to uncover the murders of the detectives. The one to realize that the Holiday Murder cases never had been solved and that a serial killer was still on the loose. He had been the one to keep digging when no one else had thought there was anything to investigate. The one whose hard work and incredible instinct would save who knew how many women in the future?

If Catherine told Fontaine or Ecklie about Sturney right now, and especially if they found the detective there, it would be all over for Jim. She owed him more than that.

Catherine keyed the screen to zoom out, and then hit print, to get a hard copy of Sturney's address. 74 Prospect Avenue. Prospect was out near the airport. One of Lindsey's friends lived on Connaught, and Prospect was one street over. She could be there in less than fifteen minutes.

"Archie, you're the best," the strawberry blonde said, clasping his shoulder and giving a squeeze. "This is between you and I right now. In twenty minutes, if you don't hear from me, I want you to show this to Grissom."

Archie had a bad feeling about things, but he trusted Catherine Willows. And he could see that whatever this was about, it was vitally important to her. "You got it." Then, to assuage the butterflies in his stomache, "Good luck."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Detective Martens used to go to that coffee shop almost every day," Sturney commented to the detective. "He would order a large double double. Sometimes he'd have a glazed donut too. And he was all over that sleazy blonde that worked the counter."

Brass knew that Carina Horwath was far from sleazy, and that while Denny Martens might have engaged in some innocent flirting, that had been as far as it went.

"I'd go in sometimes. It got so that he started to notice me. He was such a friendly bastard, even if he was a stupid one, and by the end it got to the point that he'd even nod to me in passing. But he had no idea who I was. Not a clue. Even after I sent him the letter. He just went about his blissfully ignorant way, without a care in the world.

"When I heard him mention to the countergirl one day that he would be by a little later the following day, that he was off and going golfing, I decided that that should be the day. The last day of Detective Martens life. The morning rush would be over by then. The streets would be mostly empty. I knew it would be perfect.

"It wasn't hard to find a vehicle to, shall we say borrow, and the Durango was ideal. Tinted windows, so even if someone saw what happened, they wouldn't see _me. _It was a nice, big, solid hunk of metal, guaranteed to do the job right. A Mini Cooper just wouldn't have cut it. I didn't want Martens merely injured, I wanted him dead."

Brass could picture Denny's broken body laying in the street. And then Amy and Christian at the funeral, their arms around one another, touchingly brave in their grief. _If I get that gun, _Jim thought with murderous clarity, _I'm not going to arrest the son-of-a-bitch, I'll just gut shoot him and watch him bleed out._

"When I saw him step into the street, I got overexcited for a moment, and stepped on the accelerator a bit too soon. I was worried at first that it might alert him, and he'd get out of the way before I got to him. But he was deep in whatever passed for a thought in his average little head. By the time he was aware that I was there, and turned to look, it was too late.

"I could see his face clearly through the window above the dash. His jaw dropped in stupification. Unlike Takei, I believe that Detective Martens _knew. _In that instant before his death, he made the connection to the letter. Realized all of the horrible mistakes he'd made and all of the mishandlings of the deaths of those three women. I like to think that he had a little time to regret his own ineptitude, before I smashed his body to smithereens." _And to feel the fear. Dean had seen it in Denny Martens eyes. That beautiful, tortured look. The knowledge that he was about to die._

"And then, " Sturney said quietly, "_and then there were two._"


	52. Chapter 52

_Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. I am so pleased at the responses, and to hear that you are enjoying this. I am so glad to know that 'my' CSI world has become as real for some of you as it is for me. Cathy._

Chapter 52

Cecilia looked up to see Catherine Willows hurrying along the hall towards the elevators at the end. There was something in the determined set of the criminalist's jaw, that coupled with her quick movements, raised an alarm. "Excuse me," Cecilia said apolgetically to Helen Chang, before rushing out of the room and after the blonde.

Cecilia caught up with Catherine as the elevator doors slid open, and instinctively the writer ducked inside with the other woman before they closed again. Catherine looked at Cecilia in surprise, and then quickly shifted her blue-eyed gaze and pressed the button for the lobby.

_Something has happened, _Cecilia knew. Her mouth felt dry. "Catherine what is it?" she asked nervously.

Catherine just shook her head.

"Is it Jim?" Cecilia asked apprehensively, her stomache knotting. "Please, Catherine," she implored.

Catherine bit her bottom lip. "You can't get involved in this," she allowed at length. The elevator had reached the floor and the doors slid open again. Catherine stood half outside with one hand holding the door open. She looked sympathetically at the writer, still within. "Go back up," Catherine insisted. "I'll talk to you soon. I promise."

"What is it? What's going on?" Cecilia wanted to know, the pitch of her voice rising with the emotion of her fear and uncertainty. She could see that Catherine was wearing her gun.

"Look, I'm sorry," Catherine murmured her frustration. "I don't have time for this." The blonde turned and moved quickly down the hall towards the building's lobby.

Cecilia hastened after her. She followed the criminalist out to the darkened lot, and when Catherine went to open the driver's side door, the writer moved past her and leaned against it with her hip.

"I'm sorry," Cecilia offered, her voice thick with atonement for her audacity.

Catherine looked at her in surprise. It was unlike the polite, quiet writer to interject herself physically this way, or to be so insistent after the forensic scientist had essentially ordered her to not get involved. Cecilia had always been so respectful of the boundaries and so deferential to the professionals she was working with.

"I can see how rattled you are," Cecilia observed. "And I know it has something to do with Jim. I _have _to know." She paused, her dark eyes moist with emotion. "I love him, Catherine."

Catherine was not surprised by the admission. Her resolve softened for a minute. She could imagine how the other woman was feeling, and while her heart went out to her friend, she couldn't allow Cecilia to get involved in anything that would happen from here on out. Catherine was taking enough of a risk doing what she was doing. But she could see that Cecilia was not going to be easily dissuaded.

"Okay, yes, it has to do with Jim. I think he knows who the killer is, and I think he's gone to bring him in." She watched Cecilia's eyes grow wide. "Now please, move, because every second might count."

"I'm going with you!" Cecilia insisted, pulling open the door of the Denali and slipping inside. She slid across to the passenger's seat before Catherine could try to restrain her.

"Cecilia, you can't!" Catherine argued angrily. "This isn't some plotline in a novel, this is the real thing! Get out now!"

"You're wasting time," Cecilia returned with steely resolve.

_Oh good Lord! _Catherine thought. "I can't babysit you," she said in frustration. "This is police business, and I'm sorry, I know how you feel, but you can only make things worse!"

"I won't get in the way," Cecilia promised. "I'll stay in the car. I just...I just have to be there."

Gritting her teeth, Catherine hopped up into the driver's seat, and started the engine. The writer had left her no choice. She couldn't seek help in ejecting Cecilia, because then whoever it was might want to know where Catherine was going and what she was up to. And besides, there just wasn't time. She had told Archie to alert Grissom in twenty minutes. And as soon as Gil got the print out, the police and the Feds would be on their way.

_"Aw, hell," _Catherine sighed in defeat, then she backed out of the spot, gave the wheel a sharp turn, and pressed down on the accelerator, roaring out of the lot.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Now...I thought the orchestration of Detective Keeth's death was a true work of art," Sturney commented with obvious hubris. "I don't know which I'm prouder of really, his demise or Detective Takei's. You have to admit they were brilliantly planned. Detective Keeth's took a bit more work though. But in the end, it was so satisfying to watch everything come together."

Jim realized that as much as he hated hearing the killer gloat about murdering the three detectives, there was a part of him that listened with fascination. A part that _wanted_ to know how Sturney had done it. The side of him that liked solving puzzles, that had that drive to examine each piece before putting it in its place and completing the picture. It was that part of him that made him good at his job, the detective knew.

"Unlike Detective Takei's, Detective Keeth's home security left a little something to be desired. It was pathetically easy to get inside his apartment. I had a good look around. The man was a bit of a slob, I must say. Didn't make his bed. Left the toothpaste tube lying on the sink with the cap off. There were a few unwashed dishes in the sink. And the place stank of tobacco smoke.

"There was an extra key hanging in the kitchen. Even though it was simple enough to break in, I thought the key might facilitate things at a later point. But I couldn't just take the key, I didn't want to raise any suspicions. So I made it look like someone had broken in and absconded with a few of the detective's worthless belongings."

Gladys _had _seen Sturney that day, there was no doubt about it now. And things had happened just as Brass had imagined they had.

"I saw the sleeping pills, but I didn't fully formulate an idea until I watched him haul that chair out to the curb one day." Dean grinned at the memory. "The one that had the big burn hole in it. It was obvious what had happened, the imbecile had fallen asleep with a lit cigarette. I had noticed that he was a drinker, kept beer and whiskey in the house. I had to go back twice more, until a night when there were only a few more shots of the whiskey left. Just enough to mix the sleeping pills with, and for him to get the full disabling effect of the combination."

Sturney _had _managed to drug Elliott Keeth, in the manner that Brass had suspected. But why hadn't there been any traces of the sleep aid in the bottle's contents?

"I went back later and he was passed out on the sofa. I lit one of his cigarettes for him, then set it between his fingers and shoved his hand down into the cushions. It didn't take long for the fire to get going, he had one of those cheap, older couches made of highly flammable materials. I was worried at first that it might all be over _too _fast, that Keeth wouldn't wake up and understand how I had bested him, now that the time to pay for his past mistakes was at hand.

"But he did rouse. I could see his nostrils flaring...the man had unusually big nostrils, had you ever noticed that?...as the smoke started to curl around him. When he opened his eyes, I smiled at him. He knew the seriousness of the situation then. At that point, he was powerless to move. Only his brain...such as it was...was working.

"He looked stunned, like he couldn't believe it was really happening. Like it was just a bad dream and he would wake up any moment. And then I saw the understanding dawn. He _knew. _He knew I'd beaten him, and that he was about to die." Sturney nodded his head with satisfaction.

Brass wondered what it had been like for his friend in those final moments. He hoped that the combination of the sleeping pills and the alcohol had put Elliott Keeth out before the excrutiating pain that would have ensued.

"His big body shook, you know," the killer continued his narration. "With anger, at first. And then with fear." _That beautiful, precious fear that Sturney had drawn into his lungs and which held for him the same life-giving properties as oxygen. _"There were tears in his eyes. They ran down his dark cheeks. I think that if he had had his power of speech...he might have begged for his life." Dean smiled at the thought, it brought him comfort.

Brass felt his own body quake with anger at the horrible indignations his colleagues had suffered at Sturney's hands. The look the detective gave the killer was pure acrimony, but Sturney was too wrapped up in his recollections to notice.

"I stayed as long as I thought I could," Sturney said. "I knew that the smoke would alert someone soon enough, and that I had to be gone before then. But I did get to smell the searing of the flesh of his hand." The killer paused and breathed deeply, as though mentally recreating the triumphant experience. "Have you ever smelled burnt human flesh before, Jim? Of course," he answered himself, "you must have at some point in your career. There's nothing like it in the world, is there? You can never wash the memory of that stink out of your nasal passages."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

A myriad of questions raced through Cecilia's head as the Denali sped through the night. But she found it impossible to give voice to any of them. The writer would glance over at the strawberry blonde from time to time. Catherine had both hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel, her sapphire eyes fixed on the road ahead as she weaved in and out of traffic. Her mouth was set in a silent, grim line.

When Catherine took an exit, barely slowing the SUV so that for a moment it rocked on its left side wheels, Cecilia caught the sign as they flashed past. They were headed towards the airport. She thought about the last time she had been at McCarran, picking Jim up from his trip to Los Angeles. She could still see his smile, when he had picked her out from the crowd. The warmth and the genuine pleasure that was reflected in his dark eyes.

Her heart had thrilled to watch him moving determinedly through the throng towards her, with his unique, rolling gait. Cecilia had realized then that she was in love with James Brass.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Where is Catherine Willows?" Fontaine asked sharply.

Conrad Ecklie turned at the FBI agent's words. "Willows? I don't know, I haven't seen her for a while. Why don't you page her?" he suggested, his manner less than helpful. Ecklie was furious that even after Brian Mobley had put him in charge of the CSI end of the investigation, Special Agent Fontaine had insisted on personally working with Catherine.

"I did and she's not answering," the agent replied coldly. "One of my agents thought he saw her rushing out of here not long ago." Fontaine had thought he had gotten through to the criminalist. That she had agreed to work with him. To trust him. Clearly he had misjudged her.

Ecklie's heart skipped a beat. Being in charge of things meant that Willows was his headache now. Normally, the CSI was one of the best. Someone who was level-headed and responsible and who went by the book. He'd often considered approaching her about joining his team on dayshift. He didn't think Grissom would let her go though. Half the time the blonde did the entomologist's job for him, Conrad knew.

But this whole situation was different than anything they had ever encountered before. Ecklie knew the criminalist was close to Jim Brass. He hoped that that wouldn't affect the level of her professionalism. Even as the thought formulated, Ecklie knew with an unerring sense of self-preservation that somehow the crap was about to hit the fan, and that in all likelihood, he was about to get showered with it.

"I'll try her cell," Ecklie said, smiling ingratiatingly now, realizing that this was not a time to make enemies, especially of Fontaine's career stature. "Maybe her pager battery is dead. I'm sure she's here somewhere."

Fontaine waited, and when it became apparent that Catherine Willows was not answering her cell phone either, he turned on heel and strode determinedly away.

Once he was alone back in the conference room, Fontaine contacted the surveillance team. "Has Brass gone anywhere?" The reply was negative. "I want you to get up to his apartment _now. _If he doesn't answer the door, I want you to go in anyways, understand? Proceed with caution though. Once you either make visual contact with Brass, or are inside the apartment and have it secured, I want you to call me back." The agent expressed his understanding.

Every nerve ending in Fontaine's body sang. _Something_ was up. And he had a really bad feeling that whatever it was...it wasn't good.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"And then," Sturney said in that same low voice, seeming to caress the words, "_and then there was one._"

The way the killer had progressed with the count down, the way the man's voice changed as he did so, was creepy to Brass. It made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end, and the blood run sluggishly through his veins. He found himself wanting to inject some levity in a situation that seemed as though it might crush him with the horrific weight of the knowledge of all of those premature deaths.

"So you saved the best for last," Jim mentioned casually, resting his head against the back of the chair.

"Sit up!" the killer snapped. "You'll get blood on my furniture!"

Sturney was incensed and had redirected his anger. How could the detective be making _jokes_? Hadn't the man heard a word he had said? Didn't he know the power of the person he was dealing with? Didn't the poor, stupid son-of-a-bitch understand that Dean was going to _kill _him?

As he had talked, Sturney had waited and waited for _that_ moment. The moment when the cool detachment would leave the detective's eyes, and then the terror would take it's place. He didn't understand what was taking so long, Brass's reactions to everything so far had been foreign to Sturney.

Jim was struck by the ludicrousness of what was important to the killer right now, but he complied by leaning forward again, resting his elbows on his knees.

So far, there had not been a chance for the detective to make a play for the gun; no relaxing of Sturney's vigilance. And Brass was aware that he had about run out of time. _And then there was one. _That was him, he was the last one left. His death would fulfill whatever quota the killer had set for himself.

Brass was resigned to his fate. He felt an overwhelming sorrow and a grief at everything that would be lost. He knew the effect his murder would have on his friends and colleagues. He thought that even Nancy and Ellie might mourn him on some level.

It was always so hard for those left behind. The ones who had to cope with the aftermath of a tragedy. The ones who had to pick up the broken pieces of their lives and go on. Who had to learn to smile and laugh again without being bowed by a terrible guilt that told them it was inappropriate to take any pleasure from life with someone they cared about recently buried and never able to feel happiness...or anything else...again.

Even though it was entirely his fault for being in this predicament now, Brass knew that it would be human nature for his co-workers to blame themselves, to question everything they had done, to wonder what they could have done differently to have changed the outcome. Lord knew Jim had been there enough times himself.

For him, the pain was almost over. Death would probably come swiftly. And then there would be that merciful nothingness. He wouldn't feel anything again. No regrets. No self-recrimination. No loneliness. No grief of his own. He was actually the _lucky _one, he knew.

But that didn't mean that until the end came, he wouldn't feel this incredible sorrow for the loss of what his life was, and what it _might_ have been. It was true, Jim accepted, he hadn't made the best use of the privilege of his life over the years. But still, he had done _some _good. Professionally he had made a positive difference at times. Personally, he had forged a few friendships and brought an occasional smile.

Jim did regret that he hadn't been able to put things right with Ellie. He was grateful now for his foresight in writing the letter. He hoped that somewhere in his rambling words she would gain an understanding. And that she would be able to feel his unconditional love and pride.

The detective was aware that he'd grown cynical lately. That he had come to expect the worst from people, and to see the darker side of life before the good. But still, there had been times when he was able to look at the sunrise...few and far between granted, but he had retained the ability...and appreciate the awe inspiring beauty. Times when the sound of a child's laughter could cause his lips to curve not with sarcasm, but with joy. Brass hadn't become totally jaded, even though for a long time now, it had always seemed that in his world, dark clouds eternally covered the sun.

There had been hope for him though. Cecilia had shown him that. She had turned everything upside down. Jim's entire outlook had been redefined from the moment she had walked into his life. From that very first morning, at the scene of Denny Martens' death, when she had shown up with Conrad Ecklie, she had begun to make a difference in his life. Even when Brass had been brusque, resentful and unwelcoming. A gruff, middle-aged career cop who barely acknowledged her and who hadn't even had the good manners to shake her hand when they were first introduced.

Her empathy and respectful consideration, staying back, deferring to his discomfort when he had wanted a private moment with the dayshift supervisor...even though Ecklie had been inclined to include her, and even though Jim had behaved like an ass...had begun even then to work soft fingers through chinks in armour the detective had thought impenetrable.

Her inner beauty, quiet dignity, and gentle soul had slowly worked its magic on him. The time Jim had spent with Cecilia, he treasured. He wished poignantly that he had been able to tell her that. To let her know that she had changed his life. To explain to her how incredibly special she was. And how very, very much he loved her. But perhaps it was just as well. Because Jim couldn't bear to have cemented a future with her, only to have to leave her to face it alone.

With Cecilia, Brass thought now with bittersweet surety, accepting now the enormity of his loss, he would have been able to see the beauty in the sunrise not on rare occasion...but each and every day.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Sir, Captain Brass isn't here." The young agent had dreaded dialing his superior and having to inform him that somehow they had lost track of the detective. He couldn't fathom how it had happened. All that mattered though was that it had. He wondered miserably if he'd ever be able to work in law enforcement again. He and his partner probably wouldn't even be able to get jobs as crossing guards after this.

"_Damn!_" Fontaine felt the throbbing in his temples as his blood pressure shot up far beyond its usual nintey over sixty. There was no point in asking how or why. No point in trying to assign blame. What mattered now was..._where did Fontaine go from here? And where were Catherine Willows and Jim Brass?_


	53. Chapter 53

_I cherish each and every review, thank you. It is an honour to be sharing this story. I couldn't n'ot 'write it now if I wanted to, each chapter is coming fast and furious on the heels of the next. I apologize in advance for any typos, I'm not a very good proofreader, lol, and I post as soon as I finish a chapter, rather than rechecking later with fresh eyes. Thanks for reading. Cathy._

Chapter 53

"You're not the last because you're the best," Sturney said sullenly. "Well, your dedication and ingenuity has far surpassed that of the others, but that wasn't why you got your reprieval. Have you truly not figured out why the others died first?"

Brass looked at the killer thoughtfully. He honestly hadn't given any consideration as to why he was the last. He didn't think there was a whole lot of rhyme or reason in any of the madman's actions.

Sturney gave a long suffering sigh. "I told you why Detective Takei was first. I simply went backwards through the alphabet. Martens. Keeth." Dean smiled wryly. "I bet you were always one of the first for everything when you were growing up and in school. They always do everything alphabetically, or at least they did in the good old days. Attendance, of course. Seating arrangements. Picking teams. And little Jim Brass...or was it Jimmy then, I wonder?...would always have been one of the first called on. Well, you got lucky. This time your surname bumped you to the _back_ of the list."

Oh the fickle finger of Fate, Brass realized. If his last name had been Roberts, he'd have been cold in his grave by now. Las Vegas had it right. Life really was just a crap shoot.

"Have we left anything out?" Sturney queried casually. "Or is it time to say our good byes?"

"The whiskey bottle," Brass put in suddenly. Not in a vain attempt to prolong his life, but because he really wanted to know. "I went back to the fire scene afterwards. The day of Elliott's memorial service. I recovered the whiskey bottle and had one of the techs test it back at the lab. There was nothing in it but whiskey." The detective looked at the killer speculatively. "Did you switch it?"

Sturney looked pleased. "Why yes, I did! I drained an identical bottle into my kitchen sink before I went back. Don't touch the stuff, myself. I left it there and took the other one with me. You know, I didn't really think it was necessary. Didn't think anyone would do more than a cursory investigation before finding accidental death. But still...I didn't see the point in taking any chances. Obviously, I was one step ahead as usual." He smiled at the other man pityingly. "Good for you though, that was very thorough for someone of your limited resourcefulness."

"One final thing," Jim said now. "Why go to all the trouble of making the murders look like accidents?"

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"One thing that you might want to know, Sir," the young agent finished. "There's an envelope here, addressed to Catherine Willows, care of the LVPD CSI unit."

Fontaine gripped the cell phone harder. "Open it," he instructed tersely.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Catherine pulled onto Prospect and slowed the SUV to a crawl as she watched for house numbers. A lighted address on the exterior of one of the homes indicated that it was eleven Prospect Street. Seventy-four would be at the other end of the neat, residential drive, and on the other side.

"I don't see Jim's car," Cecilia spoke uncertainly.

Catherine had been watching for it as well. Most of the street's residents had their cars parked in their driveways, or their garages, but there were a few vehicles on the roadway next to the curb. Multi-car households, Catherine suspected. It was kind of late for visitors. None of the parked cars was the familiar sedan that Jim drove, however.

It was possible that Brass had parked the next street over, to avoid detection. Or...perhaps she was wrong about everything. Maybe the detective hadn't come here at all. Maybe Dean Sturney had nothing to do with their case. Her resolve faltered and the criminalist began to doubt both her conclusions and her course of action.

_No! _She had been right initially, she had to trust her first instincts. Sturney _was _the killer. And if he was, there was no chance in hell Brass had simply decided to turn in for the night and finish this up in the morning after a restful sleep. The Grand Canyon wouldn't be wide enough to keep Jim away if he was at the end of the trail.

Another possibility came to Catherine, chilling her. What if she was too late? What if Jim had already been here...only instead of his apprehending Sturney...the killer had somehow turned the tables? What if at this moment Brass's body was stuffed in the trunk of his sedan, being driven to some cliff or embankment outside of the city, where it would be transfered to the driver's seat before the vehicle was put into drive and pushed over the edge. Looking every bit like a driving accident caused by a temporary loss of control.

_Damn, _Catherine thought with a surreal moment of calm self-realization, _I seriously need a vacation. _It was becoming all too easy to let her imagination get the better of her. To adapt to the mental playground of a psychopath.

There it was. Number seventy-four. Catherine let the SUV roll past, trying to see beyond the palmettos and hibiscus bushes, into the lighted main living area of the house. She hadn't seen any movement inside. And she didn't hear the sound of gunfire. That, at least, was probably a plus. _Now what? _She couldn't exactly march up to the door, introduce herself, and inquire if by any chance Sturney had seen Captain Jim Brass tonight.

She would have to try to get a closer look at the interior of the home. A shiver ran through Catherine's slim frame. This was the kind of thing that P.D. usually did. The kind of thing that _Brass_ would do. Securing a scene. The criminalist knew _what _to do, but she wasn't comfortable in the role. Usually by the time she got to a scene, the party was over, any danger had been negated, and it was her job to work backwards, and recreate whatever had occured.

Catherine thought of Lindsey, away at camp, having a grand adventure. She was her daughter's only surviving parent now. Now that she was here, Catherine thought, maybe she should reconsider. Perhaps she _should _call in and then wait for Fontaine or P.D.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Because I didn't want them to be _heroes_," Sturney answered flatly. "I didn't want them dying in the line of duty, victims of tragedy. I didn't want police honour guards and dignified ceremony." His pale eyes glinted. "I wanted their deaths to be senseless and stupid. A waste that others would talk about in hushed, embarassed tones, and think about with frustrated regret. Or even laying secret blame.

"The only ones to know the truth would be them...and me. And I wanted them to die knowing that there would be no investigation. No justice. No vindication. You didn't bring that to those women...and none of you deserved that for yourselves."

Sturney was sounding like some kind of warped victim's advocate, Brass realized, stunned.

"I wanted them to know how _I_ felt. Knowing all of those things about my own impending death. The senselessness of it. The fact that there would be no justice. No vindication. Their failings, and that of others like them, had doomed me. Now it was their turn to know how that _felt." _Sturney clenched his teeth, glaring at the detective.

_This guy actually considers _himself_ some kind of victim_ _in all of this, _Jim thought with amazement.

"And they did. At the end, they all knew _exactly _what it was like." Sturney grinned, his thin lips pulling so far back over his teeth that it was more a caricature of a smile.

Then his mouth sagged again, and he gave Brass a wounded look. "You've denied me that, with your meddling. The final act won't be as satisfying as the three that preceded it. There won't be the appearance of an accident this time. Your death will be splashed all over the papers. You'll probably make CNN." The killer frowned his displeasure at the idea. "Some may even view your hot-headed stupidity as heroic." The killer grimaced.

"Everyone will know now that you killed Joe Takei, Denny Martens and Elliott Keeth as well," Brass told him. "That their deaths weren't accidents. All of your hard work and careful planning down the drain." Jim knew he would only be provoking the other man, but he had to say it. For the other three. To reclaim some of the dignity that Sturney had sought to steal from them.

Sturney's face reddened. "Shut up!" he yelled, waving the gun in the detective's direction. "Now stand up! I want you to look me in the eye when I kill you!"

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass might need her _now, _Catherine accepted. As dangerous as her plan might be, she was committed to that course of action. Life was rife with dangers. She wouldn't put herself in a foolhardy situation and take unnecessary risks, because she had a responsibility to Lindsey. But that wasn't the situation here. Catherine's colleague...her friend...needed her. Whether this was technically her job or not, morally Catherine knew she was doing the right thing.

"Stay here!" the criminalist whispered insistently at Cecilia, before getting out of the Denali.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Fontaine could not have been any more stunned by the contents of the envelope Jim Brass had left for Catherine Willows. Once more his opinion of the detective was a mixture of respect and angry frustration. Working all on his own, without any resources, the Captain had solved the mystery of the identity of a maniac whose almost ten year killing spree had ended the lives of several, affected the futures of so many, and involved various law enforcement agencies across the nation.

And by now, Brass would be at the killer's residence, determined to bring Sturney in. On his own and without any back-up. Somehow, without even having received the letter yet, Catherine Willows must have found out what the detective was up to. And the criminalist's allegiance, when push had come to shove, had been with Brass.

Fontaine could understand that. It took time to forge the kind of relationship that people working together in this profession could build. Willows and Brass had a long professional history. And he sensed a personal bond as well, platonic, but deeply planted. If Fontaine had had more time, perhaps he could have begun to create an atmosphere where either or both of them might have learned to trust and respect him as well. But he hadn't, and all he could do now was whatever clean up was necessary from the sidelines.

The agent believed that both Brass and Willows had made a colossal mistake in their handling of the situation. He prayed that their decisions and choices wouldn't allow a killer to slip away again. And he hoped fervently that no harm would come to either the criminalist or the detective.

"Get over to that address right _now!_" Fontaine instructed the agent. "I'm on my way. Proceed with extreme caution. Your priority is to take Sturney into custody, and you have the ultimate authority here. Expect two locals on scene, Brass and a female. Blonde. I repeat, the priority is Sturney, we cannot lose him."

"Ten four, Sir."

Fontaine found O'Reilly in the next room with Ecklie. "I need an APB put out on a white, Volkswagon Beetle," he thrust a piece of paper at the detective on which he had written the license plate number, "and all available units at seventy-four Prospect Street. I don't want any lights or sirens, understand?" The two men looked at him in surprise. "The serial killer we've been looking for is Dean Allan Sturney. That's his current address. And your Captain Brass has gone to bring him in."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Catherine crept up to the front of the house, her gun drawn, its muzzle pointed low. She couldn't remember ever having felt so alone and vulnerable in her life. And the mantle of responsibility she had accepted on behalf of Jim Brass weighed heavily on her slender shoulders.

There was no vehicle parked in Sturney's driveway. The lights on inside could mean that someone was there, or just that they had been left on for security. She moved slowly, her body tight with tension. Approaching the garage first, Catherine peered into the shadowed space, noting that a small, light-coloured car was parked within.

She moved next to the small porch, stepping up the few concrete stairs to the landing. The porch was enclosed with wrought iron railing. A few feet to the left was the livingroom window. Catherine thought that if she pressed against the rail, and leaned over, she might be able to get a view of the home's interior.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

The detective didn't cringe when Sturney waved the gun, and the killer felt his resentment grow. What was _wrong_ with Jim Brass? Did the other man not value his own life _at all_? In most human beings the instinct for self-preservation...for survival...was so deeply ingrained it could override every other human emotion, desire or ethical position. The inclination to _live _at all costs, meant that most people would do _anything _to prolong their own existence. And most people feared their own death above all.

Sturney had seen it in the eyes of the women he had raped and murdered. The knowledge of their impending deaths. Their _fear. _And he had fed off of that emotion. For that brief moment in time, he had felt a _connection _to another human being. An understanding. For those few seconds, while the body went through a host of physiological responses...increased heart rate, respiration and perspiration... Sturney would observe his victim with excitement.

Neurologically, there was a mental hijacking, as the midbrain would make a neural shortcut, bypassing the forebrain and mobilizing the body for an immediate fight or flight response to the stimuli that caused the fear. There was the distressing accompanying feeling that one was losing control of one's mind, as rational thought was bypassed in favour of an autonomic nervous system response.

And as his victims displayed these changes...as their fear evidenced in their eyes...Sturney was finally able to feel close to humanity. He no longer felt so _alone._

Dean knew all about fear. His earliest memories were of the terror of abandonment. His teenage, drug-addicted mother would lock her toddler son in the closet, with several bottles of milk or water and some Arrowroot cookies, and then go off for the night to party. Sometimes, the gala celebration would last two or three days, before she would remember to drag herself home.

Dean would sit in the dark, hungry and alone, in the filth of his body's eliminations. Curled tightly into himself, sucking on his thumb, waiting and listening for her return. Wondering what he had done wrong. While silent tears coursed down his cheeks.

When he had gotten a bit older, three or four, when she judged it _safe_ to leave him the run of the dilapidated apartment, thinking she could trust him not to turn on the stove and cause a fire, or drown himself in the tub or toilet, Dean would sit in front of the fuzzy, black and white television during her abscences. She would leave him a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Sometimes she would even kiss his forehead and remind him to _be good, _promising to be back soon. He would just sit there, unresponsive to her touch.

The episodes were most frequent around the holidays. It was then when his young mother's friends would be partying and celebrating, and she would decide that having an unplanned pregnancy and the subsequent unwanted responsibility of a child, shouldn't prevent her from having some kind of life of her own. Dean had no idea where his father was. Or even _who _he was. If Kelly Sturney knew, she never said anything to her little boy. There was no family, no other caretaker. The child was on his own.

Dean would lie down in front of the television, turning the volume up to drown out the sounds of mice and rats scurrying through the walls, or the angry sounds of the neighbours involved in yet another domestic dispute. He would watch programmes about families seated around the Thanksgiving table, carving mouth-watering, golden turkeys. He would see commercials that featured laughing children opening presents on Christmas morning, with their doting parents looking on. All of it as foreign to him as the idea of love.

He learned that in the springtime, when the boxes of chocolate bunnies and hens began appearing at the grocery stores, and the retailers put up their pastel-coloured decorations, that other people celebrated Easter. That a giant bunny would hide coloured eggs and candy for other children to find.

And Dean would smear peanut butter on stale bread, and he would _hate _those days marked on the calendar that would always find him alone and scared.

As the years passed, and Dean entered elementary school, Kelly Sturney, formerly estranged from her family, began to turn her life around. Dean was taken into the foster care system, while his mother battled her addiction. She learned new life skills and parenting skills. She reunited with her family. Eventually, the little boy was returned to her.

She could never really understand the aloofness that the child displayed, and she would sometimes think guiltily that it was her fault that little Dean was so...odd. She tried to make it up to him for the past mistakes she had made. Kelly Sturney got a job, and she met a decent man who, even though he never became close to the growing boy, was good to them both.

As the years past, Dean realized that there was something missing in his life, that other people took for granted. He couldn't form any emotional attachments. There was always an anger seething just below the surface, even when he displayed an outward calm. He was brighter than average, but that was never reflected in his grades or the quality of work he produced.

As he became a teen, and his peers became interested in the opposite sex, and began pairing off, Dean would just hang back and watch with detachment. When he tried to talk to girls, they always seemed to either immediately dismiss him, or they were nervous around him. He only knew what he wanted from them, and not how to give anything in return, and even on those rare occasions when he managed to secure a first date, there was never ever a follow-up.

He began spending more and more time in his room. No longer taking meals with his mother and her live-in boyfriend. He began viewing increasingly graphic and violent pornography, and he became a voracious reader of the biographies of some of history's most infamous personalities. Adolph Hitler. Charles Manson. David Berkowitz, known to the denizens of New York City as the Son of Sam.

His mother discovered his collection. Dean found her sitting on the bed in his room after school one day. She wanted to _talk. _For the first time...there was _fear_ in her eyes when she looked at him. Kelly Sturney had trouble holding her son's gaze. And Dean finally discovered his power. Seeing the apprehension in her eyes, the uncertainty, the worry, made him feel ten feet tall. _Finally, _after all of these years...they had something in common.

It became an aphrodisiac for Dean then, to behave in sublte but calculating ways that would frighten his mother. To bring that look of discomfort and anxiety to her features. Soon it wasn't enough though. Her unease would pass too quickly, and he would be left feeling bereft and disconnected again.

He spent almost a month planning her death. He'd lay awake in bed, bathed in the soft glow of his nightlight...Dean always hated the total dark...and think about how to get the most optimum enjoyment out of her demise. He finally decided on fire. She was afraid of fire, he knew. Being confronted with the scarlet and crimson flames of her nightmares, would allow for her to experience maximum fear.

He had to make it look like an accident, and not like arson. Firstly, Dean had no desire to spend the next twenty years languishing in prison. Locked up. No one was ever going to lock him up again. Secondly, the bitch didn't deserve the sympathy that an apparent murder would create in people.

In the end, he had made it looked like unattended candles had been the cause of the conflagration that destroyed the home and killed Kelly Sturney. He waited until the boyfriend, a plumber, was out on a late night service call. The blaze started in her bedroom, and Kelly Sturney, trapped between her bed and the door behind the searing, crackling fingers of flame, had screamed for her son to help her.

Dean had stood in the hallway beyond, watching her try to rush for the safety of the door, wanting to push past the wall of fire, but unable to get through, turned away by the intensity of the heat, and falling back time and again. He had smiled at the twisted, agonized set of her still youthful countenance. At the horror that was reflected in her light blue eyes. She had understood then that not only was her son not going to help her...but that he was the one who had doomed her to this fiery hell.

Her fear had been a living, palpable thing. Dean had felt it emanating from her in waves. He'd thrown back his head and closed his eyes, and stood there with his arms extended wide while he let its essence bathe him. And her screams had resonated in his ears.

And as he drank in her pain and suffering, and watched her fear, for those few moments the memory of his own fear and pain was alleviated. Temporarily forgotten. And for a split second, his mother _finally _gave him what he needed. They were as one. And for that instant, Dean Sturney came as close to feeling love for a human being as he was capable of doing.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Catherine could see Brass standing near a blue upholstered arm chair positioned near the window. Across from him was Sturney, she recognized him from the driver's license photo. She hadn't noted his height at the time, and was surprised by how _small _the man looked. This was the monster who had murdered three cops and several women? He looked as though one good breeze would upend him and carry him out of Clark County.

_Sturney had a gun! _He was pointing it at Jim, gesticulating angrily. Catherine didn't see a weapon in Brass' hands and knew the detective would not have arrived unarmed. Evidently, Sturney, as unprepossessing as he appeared, had found a way to disarm Jim. _What had gone wrong? And what should she do now?_

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Brass stared at the killer. To his surprise, he felt calm. At peace. No matter what happened now, Catherine would soon get the letter. Even though Brass had failed, it was only a matter of time before Sturney would be apprehended. The killing spree would soon be at an end.

The detective knew that it was all over for _him_. Sturney wouldn't get away, but he would claim his final victim. Yet Jim wasn't afraid.

He held in his mind the faces of those who had meant the most to him over the years. His parents. His brother. Even Nancy, back in the beginning when they had been young and mistaking lust for love. Ellie, who he always carried with him in his heart.

The cops he had worked with back in New Jersey, before the undercover assignment that had cost him their trust and respect. Annie, who had never given up on him.

Sammy McCann, whose daughter Tania had lost her battle with CF. A cop who had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Sammy, whose trust Brass had had to eventually betray in the line of duty, but who had taught Jim that people were more than the sum of their mistakes.

He could see before him the faces of Joe Takei, Denny Martens and Elliott Keeth. Of the other officers and detectives he had come to respect during his time with the LVPD. Brass thought of Catherine and Grissom and the other CSIs who he had worked in conjunction with. He hoped that Catherine and Gil, especially, would know that they had always been more to him than just co-workers.

Brass thought of Tony and Maria Scrivo and their ebullient and gracious friendship, and of the barbecue that would never happen now.

And finally, the detective conjured up an image of Cecilia. If Jim did have an eternal soul, than she had saved it. And if there was something beyond this life, and a way for those gone on to watch over those left behind, then Jim promised himself he would find a way to protect her in death, the way he would have liked to had he lived.

And then Jim remembered the feel of her curled in his arms, wanting that to be his last conscious thought, and he smiled.

Sturney was livid. Detective Brass was _smiling_?Perhaps the man was in denial. Perhaps he still expected the cavalry to ride in and save him. Maybe he thought Dean wouldn't go through with it. The killer's arms trembled with his need to kill the other man. But he couldn't. _Not yet. _Not until the detective gave him what he craved. What he needed.

To see Jim Brass' _fear._ To take it in, and create that bridge between them. For one last time before Sturney's own death, to reach across the chasm of his own pain, loneliness and anger to _bond _with another human being in shared understanding.

Sturney had to get the detective's attention. To get past whatever fantasy the other man had created for himself that allowed him to look down the barrel of a Magnum and _smile. _Dean glared at Brass, and angling the gun slightly, the killer pulled the trigger and fired into the floor.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Catherine watched Sturney point the gun _away _from Jim, and then started when she heard a bullet explode from its barrel.

Before she could react, someone was moving past her in a blur, grabbing for the doorknob and pushing into the house. _"Cecilia!" _Catherine cried after her in desperation. Then she followed after the other woman without stopping to consider the wisdom of the action.


	54. Chapter 54

_I hope that everyone has a Happy Easter! Thanks and take care. Cathy._

Chapter 54

Cecilia stumbled through the open doorway into the house. She had disregarded Catherine's instructions and climbed out of the Denali just moments after the criminalist had. Catherine had been so focused on her approach to the bungalow, so fixed on what might be happening _inside _that she had neither heard nor sensed the writer come up behind her.

Cecilia hadn't been close enough to see inside Dean Sturney's home. She had stood poised on the bottom step of the porch, her hands clenched at her sides. Her palms were slick with sweat, while her heart thudded in her chest, and she wondered agonizingly what was going on. Jim was inside with Sturney, Cecilia _knew_ it. She could sense him there, even if she couldn't see him yet.

When she had heard the gun go off, Cecilia's mind had seemed to short-circuit for a moment. She hadn't been capable of rational thought. She wasn't even aware that her brain had sent the message for her legs to _move. _She didn't stop to consider that she might only make things _worse _for the detectiveOr that she might put herself in danger.

All she was aware of was the image of Jim on her inner eye, the love for him that echoed in each beat of her heart, and the desperate overwhelming panic that he might be hurt. She had heard Catherine call out to her, the other woman's voice sounding disconcertingly distant, even though the criminalist was within arms reach.

Cecilia was still holding onto the doorknob when she faltered across the threshold, and if she hadn't had it for support, the writer might have fallen into the foyer. She saw Jim first, standing several feet away, impossibly, gloriously alive and seemingly unharmed. Her knees sagged with relief.

Catherine was bumping into her then as the blonde barreled through the door in pursuit. Cecilia looked back at the other woman even as she steadied herself on her feet. At Catherine's pale, frozen features. Then the writer turned her head again to follow the other woman's line of sight.

Cecilia noticed the gun first. It looked huge; solid and deadly in the small man's hand. He had to be Sturney, of course. Cecilia was taken aback by how physically unimposing and sickly the killer looked. He was shorter than she was, and painfully thin. Sturney's skin had an unhealthy, grey cast. He looked as though he had been fighting a serious illness for a very long time.

_The Videx. HIV._

Jim felt as though he had been sucker punched, and the wind knocked out of him. _NOOOO! Impossible! _This was his absolute worst nightmare, although the detective knew hollowly that he wasn't dreaming. His mouth worked to call her name, but the sound was trapped in his throat. Cecilia was the _last _person Jim would either have wanted or imagined to be here. He shook his head wordlessly, trying to deny the horrifying reality of the situation.

Sturney stared at the two women, stupefied. Detective Brass really _had _been waiting for the cavalry! Dean couldn't believe how convincing the police captain had been, not giving the slightest hint that he was waiting for last minute rescue. _That _was why Brass had been able to maintain his composure, Sturney understood now. The fool had held onto the hope that someone would be coming to save him

Sturney's pale eyes narrowed as they shifted to the detective, annoyed at the other man's subterfuge. Dean was taken aback to see the slack-jawed, dumbfounded look on the other man's craggy features. Evidently, this little intrusion hadn't been in the script. Jim Brass was as surprised to see the two women as _he_ was. _Interesting. _

There was a preternatural silence, as each of the four froze. Time seemed suspended. Sturney glanced through the livingroom window, expecting to see flashing lights out front. He listened for the ear-splitting wail of sirens. Waited for the other police officers to pour through his front door. He assessed the situation in a split second. There was no one else...just _two women_...come to liberate Jim Brass.

Sturney's lips curled in a lopsided smile. He raised the gun and pointed it at the pair. "Welcome, ladies." Sturney nodded first to the blonde, furthest away, and then to the brunette in the foreground. "Cagney. Lacey." He chuckled at his perceived cleverness. "Come in." He motioned with the muzzle for them to move further into the house and both of the women took a hestitant step forward.

The smile left Dean's face as he was all seriousness again. "Drop your weapons. Now."

Catherine felt a flash of anger as she reached out and let the gun fall to the ground. She was angry at herself, for the way she had handled everything. Each choice had been a mistake, she knew, from her first decision to come here to Sturney's, to rushing headlong after Cecilia just seconds ago. She was angry for ever thinking she could help Jim on her own, and mad at herself to know she had failed.

She was angry at Cecilia, for her insistence on coming, and for disregarding Catherine's orders to stay in the SUV. She was mad at Jim for taking on a madman alone and unaided in the first place. Mostly, she was angry with Sturney...for whatever it was that had twisted inside him and allowed the man to take human lives without conscience...and for the smug way he looked at them all now.

Fast on the heels of the anger, came the fear. Fear for the lives of her friends. Fear for herself. Fear over what would become of Lindsey if Catherine joined the list of the serial killer's victims...which seemed inevitable now. Catherine's gun had been their last hope for stopping Sturney and getting out of this alive, and she listened to it clatter uselessly on the floor.

"I told you to put down the gun," Sturney's voice raised in annoyance, as he waved the Magnum at Cecilia.

"She's not with LVPD," Catherine put in swiftly, trying to keep her voice level and soothing.

Cecilia stood immobile, staring at him with wide, chocolate eyes, her features paling. Sturney knew the second woman wasn't a cop. She was the detective's lover. His _ex_-girlfriend, possibly, because Sturney hadn't seen them together lately. No more breakfasts at the pancake house. No more meeting up in the parking lot of the CSI building, where the brunette had some unidentifiable role. The woman had stopped staying the night at Jim Brass' place. But evidently there was enough residual good feeling left to cause her to rush here to the detective's rescue.

On reflection, Sturney realized that she likely _didn't _have a firearm. If she was stupid and undiscerning enough to lay on her back for a nothing like the detective, she was easily idiotic and short-sighted enough to come bursting in armed with nothing more than righteous indignation and a mistaken belief that good always triumphed over evil .

But perhaps he could have some fun, before this was all over, Dean thought. The first stirrings of fear were there, in the woman's dark eyes. He could feel his initial response to it; the way his respirations had increased, the rush of blood to his groin, the feeling of invincibility that was starting to grow. The _pleasure _that hummed through his veins.

"I'll give you one more chance to drop it," Sturney told the brunette, lowering his voice ominously, wanting her to feel the weight of the threat, and the worry that would come with knowing she couldn't comply. "And then I'll shoot." He raised the level of the gun barrel to her face, aiming it between her wide doe-eyes.

Women were always so vain about their looks. The idea of rearranging her features in chunks of bone, flesh and gore as the bullet travelled the ten feet or so between them and found its mark, appealed to him. Sturney had never owned a gun before. He loved the sensation of it in his palm now, and the knowledge of its power. He had never shot anyone and he wondered what it would be like. Her death wouldn't be as satisfying as watching the life drain from the detective's eyes, but her fear would still give him sustenance.

"Or did you want me to frisk you? Is that what you like?" Dean gave a slow, lascivious smile, while his gaze travelled boldly over her curves. He had the satisfaction of seeing her tremble, and he bit back a groan.

"She's not a cop, Sturney!" the deep voice rang out desperately. "She's a civilian, she's unarmed!"

The killer lower the gun, turning slowly towards the detective.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Archie popped his head into Gil Grissom's office. He cleared his throat to announce his prescence, and the nighttime supervisor turned at the sound.

"Catherine wanted me to give you something," the tech explained, coming into the room. He handed the sheet of paper to the silver-haired scientist.

Grissom took the print-out of a man's driver's license. Not understanding what he was supposed to do with it, he frowned at Archie.

"Catherine said that if I didn't hear from her in twenty minutes, I was to give this to you," Archie continued. He crossed his arms over his chest. "It was the last thing Captain Brass accessed under the LVPD's computer system. He used a hidden password, after his was denied access."

Grissom's mouth felt dry. "Archie," he said slowly, "did Catherine say _why_ you were supposed to give this to me?" He stared at the photo of the underweight, dark-haired man. "Did she _go_ to this address?"

The tech wished he had thought to ask more questions, but the criminalist had rushed out of the lab, and he hadn't had time. "I think so. And I think she thinks Captain Brass was going there too."

_Dean Allan Sturney. _Grissom stared into the ice blue eyes in the photograph. _Catherine, what have you done?_ He snatched at the phone on his desk. In a moment, he'd go find Special Agent Fontaine. But first he had to do something. Every second might count.

"This is Grissom. I need possible back-up for CSI Willows and Captain Brass, at Las Vegas address 74 Prospect Street. Excercise caution...I think we're dealing with a serial killer." Gil listened dumbfounded. "When? Okay, thanks."

"Did you show this to anyone else first?" Grissom asked Archie uncertainly. Archie shook his head. "Because it seems the FBI and P.D. are already on their way."

_And what, _Grissom thought anxiously, _are they going to find when they get there?_

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

It took a moment for it to register that what Sturney was _finally _seeing on Detective Brass' face was _fear_. Not fear for his _own _life...but fear for the life of the tall, dark-haired woman.

Sturney was stunned. He'd heard of the phenomenon of course. _I love you more than life itself. _He had always dismissed it as a myth. One perpetuated by the insipid masses. By parents who wanted to make themselves seem like wonderful caretakers, their hearts overflowing with unconditional love, who would have you believe that they consistently and cheerfully put the needs...the very lives...of their offspring above their own. Dean knew firsthand how much of a fallacy _that _was.

It was the kind of thing men would say to women in order to bed them, and the kind of thing women would say to men to trap them into marriage and a lifetime financial committment.

It was the stuff of movies, books and popular songs. Oh sure it _sounded _wonderful. The concept that one human being could be so selfless as to care more about the existence of another, than for their own life. But that kind of love was as much a fairy tale as Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and unicorns. Dean could always understand how some narcissistic types might _want_ to believe it. To think that they were just so incredible, so unique...so _irreplacable_...that another person would value them more than their own life. But he had never been so naive as to buy into the hype.

_Except...except that now the detective's features were ashen, his face was slick with sweat, and his eyes were wide and panicked. _All because Dean had threatened _the woman._

Jim realized his mistake immediately. He watched the speculation on Sturney's pinched features turn to understanding.

When the detective had watched the killer point the gun at Cecilia, it had seemed that the room had tilted, and his vision swam. It felt as though his heart had temporarily suspended beating in his chest, only to restart in a new staccato rhythmn. Blinding terror, unlike anything Brass had ever known, had stapled him to the spot even as he had wanted to throw himself at the madman. Jim could have sworn he had heard the Magnum's retort, and felt the writer's warm blood splatter his face and clothes, the image was so real.

When Sturney had leered then at Cecilia, dropping his tone suggestively, the detective had pictured the nude, or partially nude, battered bodies of the women the killer had raped and murdered. He had imagined Cecilia's screams, her pain and terror, as Sturney forced himself on her, punishment for disobeying his directive to put down her gun.

Brass knew Cecilia had never even held a gun before, and that Catherine wouldn't have risked arming a neophyte. All he had wanted was for Sturney to leave the novelist alone.

Jim had vowed to protect Cecilia, and in the end...his love for her had betrayed her. He saw that truth in Dean Sturney's cold, pale blue eyes.

Sturney could kill Jim Brass now, he accepted with satisfaction. The detective had given him what he needed. But first...he would take from the cop what the other man valued the most. Even more than his own life, as impossible as it might seem. Even more excrutiating than the bullet that would pierce the detective's own skull, would be those final moments beforehand, when Brass would watch the light go out of the eyes of the woman he loved. Knowing it was _Dean_ who had stolen it.

Jim watched the killer begin to raise the gun again, towards Cecilia. All of his training, all of his years of experience...every cop instinct he had...was telling Brass to dive low, to make himself less of a target. To go for Catherine's discarded gun there on the floor. So that before Sturney could get off a second shot, he might be able to preempt him.

But Jim's heart was telling him to get to Cecilia, to put his own body between her and the killer.

Cecilia was no more than a half a dozen feet away. But she might as well be at the end of the block, the detective knew. Jim Brass was no superman. He wasn't able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. And he wasn't faster than a speeding bullet. It was futile. Not only would he be unable to save Cecilia, but this course of action would only guarantee his own death as well.

But without her, there was nothing worth living for.

The detective heard the anguished roar escape his own lips, as he launched himself into the air, extending his body, trying desperately to make up the distance between them.

Over the sound of the detective's bellow came the thunder of the Magnum, as Sturney took his shot.

The bullet whistled through the air, digging easily through skin and flesh. It tore through muscle, sliced through bone, and ripped apart capillaries, arterioles and venules. It punched out through the other side, and coated now with human blood and tissue...its work done...it buried itself into the exterior wall.

The second shot rang out while the deadly song of the first was still reverberating in the air.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"What the _hell _is going on!" Sheriff Brian Mobley barked, as he stormed into the conference room. His face was crimson, contorted with anger and uncertainty. The reports from the scene had been chaotic and tenebrous.

Conrad Ecklie stared back at him evasively. "We think we've got a lead on the serial killer. Fontaine and O'Reilly are on their way..." He glanced at Grissom and Sara Sidle, standing next to him, seeking support.

"How the crap did you botch things up so badly?" Mobley demanded, his breathing ragged. "It's all over the scanner! It sounds like the gates of Hades have opened up out near McCarran. A residential street...Prospect. I've got conflicting accounts, but there seems to be one common thread. One dead, one critical, enroute to University Medical Centre. I've got LVPD and the Feds on scene. If the press isn't there already, they will be soon."

Ecklie paled. "No one has checked back in yet..." he began hoarsely. _Oh shit! Something had gone seriously wrong, and somehow this was going to be _his _fault._

_One dead. One critical. _The sheriff's voice seemed to reach Grissom down the end of a long tunnel.

Mobley's cell phone rang. He swore as he read the display. "So what the hell am I supposed to tell the mayor!"

Sara clutched the back of a chair to steady herself. Her dark eyes sought out Gil's face. There was no emotion in the sky blue eyes, behind the clear lenses. She felt the tears gather behind her own lids.

"We have to wait til we learn something conclusive," Grissom cautioned evenly, his features impassive.

_"Conclusive?" _Sara laughed humourlessly, as she fought the rising panic. "One person is dead, Grissom, and another person might not make it." Sara swallowed hard. "Catherine is there. And Brass. You _know_ that." His expression didn't change. "I don't understand you!" she cried. "They're our colleagues. Our _friends._ And you look like the biggest thing you have to worry about is what to watch on t.v. when you get home!" Her accusation rang in the air, as Sara sought an outlet for the emotion that threatened to drown her.

"Sara, until we know..." Grissom began.

"Until we know _what_? Which one of them it is? If not both?" she asked incredulously. "The odds aren't looking so good right now, you know, and in a few days, in all likelihood, you're going to have to dig out your black suit, and order some flowers. I don't understand you, Grissom. Don't you care about anyone or anything?"

Sara turned and stalked out of the room, bumping into Nick Stokes in the doorway. Nick, who had heard the news also, gathered her trembling frame into his arms.

Gil watched Nick stroke Sara's dark hair, and murmur something against her ear. He had heard the disgust in Sara's outburst. He stood alone, silently, a muscle spasming in his jaw.

_Catherine. Jim. _Grissom closed his eyes for a moment. He couldn't begin to imagine losing either of them.


	55. Chapter 55

O'Reilly saw a lot of awful things on this job. Things that would work their way under his skin, affecting him long after the scene had been cleared, the reports filed, and the prosecutors and lawyers had entered the realm. Terrible things that would sometimes haunt his nocturnal hours, so that he tossed and turned in his bed and woke bathed in a sour sweat. It went with the territory.

You learned to cope with being faced with the worst aspects of human nature, or you burned out quickly and looked for another job. The detective had learned to deal with the horror and the senselessness of loss and the ugliness of the worst of human nature.

But there were some things that were so emotional, so _close, _that they not only affected O'Reilly, they changed him.

He didn't like to rank human pain and suffering, or his reaction to it. _Every _tragic case that involved other human beings was a terrible thing. You learned to cope...but you never got used to it. Sometimes though, it was impossible to distance yourself the way you needed to, to avoid being sucked into the ugliness and the darkness. It was one thing when the victims and perpetrators were strangers. It was another when you knew them as individuals _before_ tragedy had ensued.

The first and probably worst experience, when his personal and professional lives had crossed over, had been fourteen years ago, when O'Reilly had still been back in Boston. He had been called to the aftermath of death and carnage that had left him with depression and night terrors so awful that for the first and only time in his career, the grizzled detective had sought the counselling available to him as one of the benefits of the job.

A cop that O'Reilly had worked with on occasion, and socialized with now and again at one of the small Irish pubs that Boston had no shortage of, Mickey Dennehy, had lost it one night and killed every one of his four young children. Their deaths had been savage and brutal. Dennehy had slit their throats with a kitchen knife, while they slept tucked into their beds in the one place on earth they should have been safe...the warmth of their own home.

He had taken his wife hostage after she had woken to check on her offspring, and to see why their five month old baby girl hadn't woken for a night feeding. Her soul-splitting screams had alerted the neighbours, who had called police. The first cops to arrive had found Dennehy barricaded inside the house, threatening to kill his wife before taking his own life. The S.W.A.T. team had been called in, and after a tense six hour stand off, one of the sharp shooters had ended Mickey's life, and for the first time officers had learned the true extent of the horror as they entered the quaint, family home.

O'Reilly had arrived at the scene after the fact, as the bodies of the children were being brought out. Colleen Dennehy had stood on the front porch, numbed to the reality. The detective remembered that the shirt of her lilac-coloured pajamas had been wet and stained, the milk that her body had still been producing for a child who would never suckle again, mixed with her baby's blood.

Ranging in age from five months to seven years, Dennehy had had three daughters and one son. O'Reilly had met the whole family just six months earlier, at the department's Christmas party, where he had donned a red and white suit and played the role of Santa. Mickey's wife, Colleen, had still been pregnant then, her belly burgeoning with the couple's fourth child.

The detective had held each of the three other children on his lap one at a time, while he encouraged them to tell him their Christmas wish lists, and promised that Santa would do what he could. They had all been impossibly cute children, with pert, upturned, freckled noses, masses of dark hair, and big, blue eyes. Miniature versions of Mickey Dennehy. As O'Reilly had watched their covered bodies coming out on the stretcher, and then had stepped into their rooms, and seen their small beds covered with their coagulating blood, for the first and only time he had lost his composure at a scene.

He had had to flee the house, and ended up outside by the side fence, retching helplessly. O'Reilly had managed to regain control, and had even been able to go back inside and finish his job. But he had been a different man after that day.

No one had been able to determine _why _Mickey Dennehy had snapped that way. Why he had taken the lives of the children he had, by all accounts, adored and been a model father to. Friends and family had expressed later that for the past year Dennehy had seemed depressed from time to time, but nothing unusual. He was stressed over finances, like most people were. Concerned that the house was becoming too small for his growing brood. But there had been no red flags that anyone who knew him looked back at afterwards and said, _'We should have seen this coming.'_

It was no surprise to anyone when two months later, Colleen Dennehy, unable to rise from the black pit of her grief, or to make sense anymore of a world bereft of her beloved children and a life partner it seemed she hadn't really known at all, had taken an overdose of prescription pills and ended her pain.

Yeah, _that one had been bad_.

Racing to the address out on Prospect, the detective driving, and Special Agent Art Fontaine buckled into the passenger seat, O'Reilly had found the old images swarming to the front of his thoughts. This situation was entirely different in just about every way. There were no children involved, of course. And the detective wasn't coming in after the fact...he was racing the clock, trying to _prevent _the horror this time. O'Reilly didn't even know what they would find at seventy-four Prospect. But the _feel _of things was the same.

That same sour spasming in his gut. All of O'Reilly's senses were heightened. The adrenaline coursed through his body and he navigated the streets of Las Vegas with the stoic federal agent sitting silently next to him. The _worry _for the lives of people he knew. _Jim Brass. Catherine Willows._

O'Reilly had a tremendous deal of respect and affection for Brass. The other man made him laugh, with his understated sense of humour and his often biting sarcasm. And he was a hell of a detective. O'Reilly had learned a thing or two about interrogating a suspect, from Jim Brass.

When O'Reilly had first learned what Brass had been up to, he tried to put himself in the Captain's place, and thought that maybe he would have done the same thing. It had been lousy of Mobley to pull Brass from the case in the first place. Surely even though protocol had been breached, there were extenuating circumstances.

O'Reilly knew the biggest question on everyone's mind was..._how? _How had Brass uncovered the identity of the serial killer? It was a complete mystery. Part of O'Reilly cheered the other man for his resourcefulness, while the other part chastized him for taking matters into his own hands.

The burly detective had always liked Catherine Willows. She was probably his favourite CSI. In the beginning, when they had first worked together, he hadn't given her enough credit for her brains and her ability to do the job. In truth, he had been floored by her sensual beauty. O'Reilly would love to watch her work a crime scene as she moved about gracefully. He never tired of staring at her face, at the incredibly high cheekbones, the flawless porcelain skin, and those impossibly blue eyes, framed by that silky, red-gold hair.

He had heard that Willows used to be a stripper, and there were times in the past when O'Reilly would have to fight to concentrate on the tasks at hand, and to stop trying to imagine Catherine in spiked heels, in various stages of undress, curving her nubile body around a pole for the viewing pleasure of a testosterone-filled room.

The longer he had known her and the more opportunity he had to work with her though, the detective had come to respect Catherine Willows as a competent criminalist. He had discovered that she had a sharp mind, and unerring senses when it came to recreating a crime scene. O'Reilly began to look forward to having her assigned to his cases not because he wanted to engage in fantasy, but because she was a damned awesome CSI.

He had been surprised to hear Catherine had come rushing to Sturney's on her own after Brass. O'Reilly knew the two were close...at one time he'd even wondered with a pique of jealousy if there might be something going on between them...but this kind of headstrong, foolhardy action wasn't something he would have expected from her. From Jim Brass...yeah. But not from Catherine Willows.

When he had turned onto Prospect, he had spotted the criminalist's Denali parked at the other end. He didn't see Brass' sedan anywhere, but if Willows was here, Brass would be too. Cutting the lights, O'Reilly had coasted down the street. The air had been thick with the tension.

The detective had been startled by the shots that rang out. He didn't even waste time turning off the engine, he had simply braked, slipped the car into park, then got out, rushing towards Sturney's residence. Fontaine had bolted past him, moving so quickly that O'Reilly was left feeling like he was taking a casual stroll through the park. He had a moment to regret his propensity for bacon cheeseburgers and fries.

As they had hurtled into the house, both men with guns drawn, the detective's mind had tried to process everything he was seeing. Fontaine stopped short, putting out his left arm to keep O'Reilly from tripping over the prone form of Catherine Willows. At first, the detective thought with dread that the criminalist had been the one to take a bullet. But then he realized that she was propped up on her elbows, her gun between both hands, still aiming at the spot where Dean Sturney had stood just a second ago.

The killer had collapsed backwards, his right leg twisted awkwardly beneath him, blood spattering the front of his white t-shirt, and already pooling behind the back of his head. Sturney was dead, O'Reilly knew it from one look at the man's pale, wide-eyed, unseeing stare. But Fontaine kept his gun trained on Sturney, as he advanced towards the man's fallen form.

Jim Brass and another person were sprawled just a few feet away. O'Reilly was stunned to know that there was a fourth person in the house. An accomplice of Sturney's? They had expected only the killer, Brass and Catherine.

Fontaine was already on the phone, calling to find out where the emergency personnel were. Even as the agent was making inquiries, O'Reilly could hear the sirens of the paramedics and the ambulance, and knew that patrol cars would also be racing to the scene.

Brass moved then, apparently unhurt, though looking dazed, getting to his knees and bending over the body of the fourth person. _Oh Christ, _O'Reilly realized, it was the novelist, Cecilia Laval. _What the hell was _she _doing here! _There was a small hole in the front of her pale, yellow blouse, the edges darkened with gunpowder and blood. O'Reilly had watched as Brass reached for the woman, slipping his arms under hers, and pulling her torso towards him. Disregarding all emergency procedures.

As the detective did so, O'Reilly saw the blood that gushed from the ugly, gaping wound in her back, where the bullet had exited with a hell of a bigger statement than it had entered with.

Brass keened raggedly as he buried his face against the writer's dark hair and rocked the woman in his arms. The sound was so agonized, so mournful, that O'Reilly wanted to clamp his hands over his ears to shut out the heartbreak. He felt as though he was violating the other detective's privacy, witnessing Jim Brass in the throes of his all-encompassing grief. It was gut-wrenching, and O'Reilly's heart bled for the other man.

As Fontaine kicked a .44 Magnum Redhawk out of Sturney's reach, he bent to touch the killer's neck and check for a pulse. At the same time, O'Reilly moved towards Brass and Cecilia Laval.

"Jim," O'Reilly said, touching his shoulder, trying to move the other man away so that he could assess the situation and administer first aid. If it wasn't already too late.

Brass swung his head, seeming not to comprehend who O'Reilly was or what he was trying to do. His eyes had a vacant, empty look that worried the other detective.

"Jim, come on, let her go. Let me help her," he spoke softly, encouragingly.

Brass just pulled the woman tighter. O'Reilly watched as two federal agents entered the house then, and with them two paramedics. "Her first!" he ordered, pointing at Cecilia Laval. Sturney could rot in hell. Then to the two agents, "Check the rest of the house. Secure the scene." Guns drawn, they began to move systematically through the interior.

It didn't seem that Brass was going to allow the paramedics to do their jobs. As much as he hated doing so, O'Reilly had to pull the other detective away, and physically restrain him. Initially, Jim put up a struggle, but then he seemed to notice the blood that covered his forearms, and he sagged against the other man.

Catherine came to them. Seeing the disconnected shine in Brass' eyes, she touched his cheek with the open palm of her hand, and gazed into his face. "Jim," she said quietly but insistently, trying to bring him back.

The detective seemed to recognize her as he focused on her familiar features. He looked away, to Cecilia, where the emergency workers were doing CPR. Without warning, Brass grabbed then for the gun that hung at Catherine's side, loose in her left hand. His eyes glinted with murderous rage as he spun towards Sturney. Jim raised the gun and pointed it at the other man, laying on the ground, staring sightlessly towards the ceiling.

_"Detective!" _Art Fontaine's voice rang out authoritatively. If Brass put a bullet into a dead man, it really _would _be all over for him, the agent knew. The detective would never wear a badge again. Brass hesitated, looking from Sturney to the FBI man. "Captain...Sturney is dead," he said levelly.

Brass dropped the gun, and Catherine picked it up again, this time reholstering it. O'Reilly knew he would have to confiscate her firearm, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Brass turned away from Sturney and Fontaine, back towards Cecilia, and the trio stood there, watching the paramedics work feverishly to bring the writer back from the brink and stablize the woman enough for transport.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

For the second time, Catherine Willows had taken a man's life. And under eerily similar circumstances, she realized. She didn't regret killing Dean Sturney, and she would do it again in a heartbeat under the same conditions. But that didn't stop her body from trembling in the aftermath, as she stood with O'Reilly and Brass, watching the paramedics try to save Cecilia.

Catherine would never forget Dean Sturney's name now. Just as she had never forgotten Sid Goggle's. She would carry the faces of the dead men with her forever, locked in the shadowed recesses of the attic of her consciousness. She knew she would be seeing Sturney every now and then, just as she saw Sid Goggle. Crossing the intersection while she waited at a traffic light. Ahead of her in line at the coffee shop. In the produce section of the grocery store.

Another man would share a similar physique, or would move the same way, or his voice, or facial profile would remind her of one of the dead men. And for a heart-rending moment, Catherine would feel the rush of adrenaline, and a moment of fear, until she remembered that it was all over. The enemy vanquished.

Everything had happened so quickly. Brass had called out to Sturney as the other man taunted and threatened Cecilia, the detective's voice strident and impassioned. Sturney had turned towards Brass and then only a second later it seemed, he was pointing the gun at Cecilia again.

Catherine had watched Brass vault forward, giving a guttural cry. She had seen the determination in Sturney's icy eyes, knowing he was going to pull the trigger. The criminalist had thrown herself to the ground, reaching for her discarded gun, and bracing her elbows against the linoleum. She took only a nanosecond to line up, firing before Sturney even tried to get off a second round.

Catherine was a decent enough shot, but standing and calmly taking aim on the firing range was an entirely different thing than being in the heat of battle under such stressful and physically difficult circumstances. She had held her breath until she saw Sturney's head rock back violently, and she knew she had gotten a hit. She had lain there, poised to shoot again if necessary, when Fontaine and O'Reilly had arrived.

Watching Jim hold Cecilia, listening to the misery that welled out of him, while he clutched her to his chest, was devestating. The guilt washed over Catherine. She should _never _have allowed Cecilia to accompany her under _any _circumstances. It wasn't the same as when the novelist had shadowed her to crime scenes previously. This was too personal, they were all too involved, and Catherine should have known that if Cecilia thought Jim was in danger the other woman was likely to react blindly. Catherine barely felt qualified enough to go after Brass on her own, and she knew that Cecilia was incapable of handling a situation like this.

It also came to Catherine then the _why _of why Jim had suddenly pushed Cecilia away and seemed to be disinterested in the writer. It was so obvious now. His attitude had changed upon his receipt of the letter from the killer. Knowing himself a definite target now...Brass had been worried that his status might put Cecilia in danger as well. Rather that talking to her about it, the detective had simply turned her away. To try to _protect her._

_And Catherine had unwittingly delivered Cecilia right to the killer. _Putting her in Sturney's pathShe didn't know if Jim could ever forgive her. Watching her friend's seemingly lifeless body now, Catherine didn't know if she could ever forgive herself.

There was so much blood. Catherine was aware that even a small amount of spilled blood could seem like a lot. But she was also experienced enough to realize that the bright red arterial blood that flowed from Cecilia's back, as one of the paramedics turned her on her side, was life-threatening. Wordlessly, Catherine watched them work to try to staunch the flow.

Jim was kneeling down then, even as the other paramedic was trying to get him to stay back, pleading with the detective to remain out of the way and let them work. But Brass muscled closer, taking one of Cecilia's limp hands in his. He had gotten over the initial shock that had gripped him in its grey claws.

"Come on, Sweetheart," Jim was saying now, and his voice was so strained, so bereft, that Catherine wouldn't have recognized it. "You've got to fight. Please, Cecilia, don't leave me." He looked plaintively at the emergency workers, his face crumpling. "Don't let her die."

Catherine watched the two paramedics exchange a glance. They were doing everything they could to help Cecilia, she knew. But she needed to get to a hospital. _Now. _And even then, there were no guarantees. Catherine saw the helplessness that passed between them.

The ambulance attendents were bringing a stretcher through the door now, preceded by two uniformed officers. One of the paramedics spoke quietly and hurriedly, giving his assessment of Cecilia's condition. The attendent nodded gravely. Working together, the four emergency personnel shifted Cecilia carefully onto the stretcher, then quickly raised it and began to hustle her out of the house.

"I'm going!" Brass insisted, moving to follow after them.

The female attendent shook her head. "Sir, I'm sorry, you can't..."

"I have to be with her," the detective repeated. "She shouldn't be alone."

One of the patrol officers stood blocking Brass. "Captain, please Sir, let them do their jobs." The young man looked uncomfortable standing up to his superior, but determined nonetheless.

"Jim," Catherine said then impulsively, "come on. We'll follow. I'll drive."

"Catherine..." O'Reilly spoke regretfully, "...I can't let you do that." His blue eyes were compassionate, but his tone was firm.

_Of course, _Catherine realized. She was evidence now. Both she and Jim. O'Reilly would have to get their statements. Someone from CSI would be coming to photograph the scene. The detective would have to take her gun. A man had been killed...a civilian...by her hand. Catherine was positive that Sturney was their serial killer, and she had only been trying to stop him from killing again, but until that had been _proven_...for now he was just a man whose house had been broken into by a rogue cop and criminalist. Without a warrant. A man who had been shot to death in his own livingroom. Internal affairs would have to be involved.

Brass stood there, his feet planted slightly apart, his arms hanging at his sides, ending in his balled fists. He looked so lost, so _broken_, that it made Catherine's heart ache just to look at him.

"Detective O'Reilly," Special Agent Fontaine was saying now, moving closer towards the three. "I can transport Captain Brass to the hospital."

O'Reilly looked at the FBI man in confusion. Surely the agent would understand the protocol. O'Reilly couldn't let either Willows or Brass leave the scene yet. It wasn't that he wanted to be a hard ass, or that he couldn't feel the pain that was etched in every line and crevice of Jim Brass' middle-aged features. But he had a job to do. And there had been enough skirting of the rules already. That was partly what had gotten them all to this point.

"I see you've sustained an injury, Captain," Fontaine went on, observing the other man's blood-staiined collar and craning his neck to assess the damage to the back of Brass' head.

"I'm fine," Jim remarked dully. _The small gash and the headache were nothing. Meanwhile, Cecilia could be dying._

"Detective, this man should be receiving medical attention," Fontaine said coolly to O'Reilly. "And the medical needs of anyone on scene takes precedence over procedure."

Catherine understood then what Art Fontaine was doing. She could have hugged the tall, dignified agent. "I think you should take him to University Medical Centre," she suggested.

Fontaine nodded knowingly. Catherine was telling him where they had taken Cecilia Laval.

"Do you know how to get there?" O'Reilly asked, looking at the federal agent with new respect.

"I'll find it," Fontaine said confidently. If they hurried, they could follow the ambulance in. "Let's go, Captain."


	56. Chapter 56

_My sincere apologies for the length of time between postings. Life has been incredibly hectic here lately (in a good way though, thankfully). Hopefully things have settled down now and I can concentrate on the story. Cathy._

Chapter 56

"We've got a female, late thirties, early forties, transmediastinal gunshot wound," the emergency room physican said, as they wheeled Cecilia into the examining room of the ER. "Penetration to zone one, single bullet through and through." He quickly assessed her vitals. "Let's get her intubated _now_ people, she's in respiratory distress." He spoke calmly but with urgency.

"Her blood pressure is sixty over forty," one of the nurses was saying, "pulse is weak and thready. There was cardiac inactivity at the scene, and paramedics administered CPR."

"There's an active, external hemmorhage," Dr. Van Dyke observed stonily. "I've got to get this bleeding slowed, or she's going to exsanguinate. Get an IV in." He reached into the wound cavity with his gloved fingers, feeling around. "We may be looking at arterial vascular injury," he noted, continuing to apply direct pressure.

"Someone page Dr. Kasey," he ordered, referring to the hospital's cardiothoracic surgeon. "We're going to have to get her into the OR. Get a room prepped."

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

The clear glass doors to the hospital's emergency entrance slid back, and Jim raced to the reception desk, where the triage nurse was taking the temperature of a patient who was filling out her insurance information. His eyes were wild, his features pale.

Fontaine had managed to keep close behind the ambulance, following in Detective O'Reilly's car. Unconsciously, Brass had kept his right foot jammed to the passenger side floor, as though he was pressing down on the gas pedal, urging the vehicle to top speed. He had watched the coloured lights spinning an all too familiar show, and listened to the strident screech of the ambulance's siren, as it weaved through traffic up ahead. All the while he had imagined Cecilia's inert form, strapped to the gurney, while the attendents worked to keep her alive.

"Where's the woman they just brought in?" Jim demanded. "Gunshot victim."

The triage nurse looked up at him uncertainly. There had been an ambulance bring an emergency transport through the side door just moments ago. Before she could reply, the detective was dashing down the corridor, Fontaine hurrying behind.

Brass was stopped at the end of the hall by an orderly who inserted his body between the detective and the doors to the examination room, where there was a flurry of activity within. "Sir, you can't go in there."

Jim looked beyond the other man and though he couldn't see the face of the patient, just the white sheet covering the lower extremities, he knew that it was Cecilia. There was a fair-haired doctor standing over the bed, his white-coated back to the door.

Jim could hear the urgency in the voices within, though he couldn't make out what they were saying. He watched the physician's blood stained, latex gloves flash into view as the man worked to assess and assist his patient. _Critical. _Jim had heard the paramedics and ambulance attendents make the pronouncement as they had hurried to wheel Cecilia away from Sturney's house.

_He had failed her. _It should be him, Brass knew, undergoing emergency ministrations. His life in limbo. _He _was Sturney's final target. _He _had miscalculated, going off alone to find the killer, falling for Sturney's simple ruse and putting his gun in the hands of a madman. If Jim had only been smart enough to understand Sturney's motivation, if he had only thought before reacting, he might have kept Cecilia safe even still. But Jim had made her a target, through his love and the blinding fear that had gripped him when Sturney had first pointed the Magnum at Cecilia. He had told the killer the best way to destroy him. By hurting _her. _And Sturney had acted on the knowledge.

Fontaine's hand descended on the detective's shoulder. "I'm sure they'll let us know something when they can," he spoke quietly. "Let's go find a place to sit down."

"I'm not leaving her," Brass replied stubbornly, moving again to push past the orderly, dropping his left shoulder and preparing to barrel his way into the room. He had to be with Cecilia. To hold her hand. To tell her to fight. _To let her know how very much he loved and needed her._

The orderly looked past the detective at the taller man, his eyes imploring him for help, even as he spread his feet and secured his stance. "The best thing you can do is give them room and let them help her," he advised.

Seeming not to have heard him, and shrugging off the FBI agent's grasp, Brass heaved forward and the doors swung open into the room. He was immediately struck by the grave, thin-lipped mouths, the shadowed gazes and the intensity of those who worked on Cecilia.

The doctor looked up, frowning. "Get him out of here!" he snapped.

A chestnut-haired nurse called out, "Jim!" then moved around her colleagues and towards the door. She grabbed the detective's right arm firmly with both hands, turning him, and exiting the room. Once outside again, though still clutching him, she assessed his wan features and the anxiety that furrowed his brow. His dark eyes were clouded with worry, and she could _smell _the fear that oozed from his pores. "Is she a cop?" the nurse asked sympathetically.

Brass just stared at Megan Joyce, seeming not to recognize her for a moment. Then her voice jolted him back to reality. He and Megan had gotten to know one another over the years, when Jim had accompanied a suspect or victim to the ER where Megan was on rotation. Conversations had lead to coffee in the hospital's cafeteria, and they had even gone on a couple of casual dates, to dinner or a movie, before realizing that they didn't have much in common outside of the occasional cross-over of their professions.

It had been more than a year and a half since they had last gone out together as a couple, though they would still have coffee and chat once in a while, when their jobs brought them together. Megan was a good nurse, devoted to her job and her patients. Jim looked at her now, and shook his head in answer to her question.

If the gunshot victim wasn't a fellow cop, clearly she was someone that the detective knew personally. Megan Joyce had never seen Jim Brass looking so devestated. "Someone close to you?" she queried, trying to keep her voice low and soothing, and to keep the detective distracted and out of the way. The next few minutes could be critical, and while she knew her nursing skills might be needed inside the room, she believed that keeping Jim out and letting her colleagues do their jobs, might help the patient even more.

Brass nodded, his throat tight. _"She can't die," _he whispered hoarsely.

Megan squeezed his arm. "They'll do everything they can," she assured him. "Dr. Van Dyke is one of the best. But he can't be distracted right now, do you understand?" She looked past the detective and called for another nurse, standing down the hall at the nurse's station, to take her place in the exam room.

Brass nodded again, looking defeated, his craggy features crestfallen.

When she felt sure that the detective wasn't going to try to interfere anymore, the nurse let go of his arm, and patted his shoulder sympathetically. "She has a gunshot wound to the upper chest, and there's a hemmorhage that is concerning," Megan Joyce explained. "Dr. Van Dyke suspects arterial vascular damage. They're monitoring her vitals, and they've called in a cardiothoracic surgeon, Dr. Eileen Kasey. Someone will keep you updated, when they're able. What you can do for her now Jim, is pray."

_Pray? _Jim couldn't remember the last time he had lowered his head to commune with a higher power. He didn't even know if he believed in prayer anymore. Or in God. What kind of difference then, he wondered dully, would his supplications make?

Then a crisis erupted in the room beyond.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

"Doctor, the patient is flatlining," a young, dark-haired nurse informed him

Van Dyke gritted his teeth. "I'm going to have to do an emergency thoracotomy, or we're going to lose her." It was preferable to wait for a specialist, but the physician knew there was no time, if there was going to be any chance of saving the patient's life.

A silver-haired nurse hurried for the implements that would be needed for the procedure, wheeling the cart with the thoracotomy pack next to the bed.

"There's no time for full asepsis," the doctor continued, referring to the practice of fully preparing the skin and surgically draping the patient. The older nurse began a rapid application of skin preparation across Cecilia's upper chest. "Scalpel and forceps!" he called, extending his right hand for the tools.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim heard the shouts in the room beyond, and watched as people scurried about, calling orders and getting equipment. Something had happened. From where he stood, he could see the heart monitor above the bed, and the air in his lungs seemed to freeze as he stared at the thin, unbroken line. _Noooo!_

Art Fontaine was questioning his wisdom in bringing the detective to the hospital. He had thought it the compassionate, merciful thing to do. He had seen how distraught Brass was, and he knew that Cecilia Laval was in critical condition. Fontaine had figured that had their positions been reversed, he would want to be near the woman he loved. That the waiting and wondering would drive him crazy. But how merciful was it really, to allow Jim Brass to stand helplessly in the hallway just a few feet away, and watch Cecilia die?

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Van Dyke quickly made bilateral cuts in the fifth intercostal space in the mid-axillary line, breaching intercostal muscles and pariatal pleura. Deftly he connected them with a deep incision. A gloved hand reached around with a wad of gauze to absorb the blood that welled from the crimson lines he had carved.

"Scissors!" The physician inserted the first two fingers of his left hand into the incision, holding the lung aside, and then began to cut towards the sternum, through all the layers of the intercostal muscles and pleura. He did the same on the other side of the chest, until there was only a sternal bridge between the two anterolateral thoracotomies.

"Gigli saw," he requested, and someone was passing him the serrated wire that he would use to cut through the hard bone of the sternum.

The intern who had come to assist passed the large forceps under the sternum, while Van Dyke slipped the wire into the incision. The intern clamped one end of the Gigli saw, and then the doctor quickly pulled the other back underneath the sternum. Once the handles were connected, Van Dyke began to cut through the sternum from the inside out, using long, smooth strokes.

"Retractors, please," he asked next. The doctor could feel the perspiration begin to bead his forehead. Even though he knew he was capable of doing the procedure, he couldn't deny the anxiety he was feeling.

Working quietly, they placed the two self-retaining retractors in position, opening them fully to expose Cecilia's chest cavity and to gain access to all areas. Using forceps to tent the pericardiam, and then requesting the scissors again, Van Dyke made a large midline longitudinal incision, careful not to damage the phrenic nerves, running through the lateral walls of the pericardial sac. Those crucial nerves provided motor innervation to the diaphragm, and were responsible for the act of breathing. He knew that if he made the incision too short, however, he would limit his access to the heart.

Van Dyke began evacuating the blood and clotting that surrounded the heart, then began to search for the source of the bleeding. He was not surprised to see that the left subclavian artery had sustained damage, just past the aortic arch, likely from bone fragment that had been decimated by the bullet's passage.

One of three scenarios could happen now, and the physician held his breath. He expelled it thankfully against his mask when the heart began to beat spontaneously accompanied by a return of cardiac output. This was what he had hoped for. If the heart had failed to restart following the thoracotomy, if it had remained in asystole, he would have had to work manually, massaging the heart to get it restarted. Even if it had begun to pump weakly, he would have had to wait to stabilize the patient first before continuing. Now Van Dyke could ligate the artery, tying it off until the patient could be moved to an OR.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim realized that he had lost his ability to gauge time. He couldn't have said accurately whether the emergency procedures taking place in the small room had been going on for hours or only minutes. He had pressed his forehead against the cool glass and stared uncomprehendingly at the activity within.

The silence and lack of motion in the hall outside was glaring in juxtaposition. Brass could feel Megan Joyce's palm, soft against his shoulder, even as the strange sense of disassociation washed over him. He imagined that he was inside the exam room, hovering in the air above Cecilia's pale, prone form, while skilled hands moved over her. Jim almost thought he could smell the overpowering, coppery scent of her rich, crimson blood, which stained not only the physician's hands now, but the sleeves of his white coat as well.

_So much blood._

He concentrated on the monitor, willing that flat, blue line to once again register activity. _Please, _Jim thought plaintively, though it fell short of an actual prayer.

When it began to move again, slowly at first, Cecilia's pulse weak but undeniably _there_, he closed his eyes and sagged against the wall.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Dr. Kasey strode into the room then, looking with clinical interest at the woman's cracked chest and exposed heart and lungs. "Good work, Doctor," she complimented behind the green mask, as Van Dyke finished up.

"I need the patient anaesthesized pronto," Van Dyke said tiredly. If the thoracotomy had been successful, the woman could begin to regain consciousness at any time and they needed to get her under. He felt as though he had just run the Boston marathon and was relieved that the surgeon had arrived.

As could often be expected, the return of circulation was accompanied by bleeding from the internal mammary and intercostal vessels. The emergency room physician observed for a moment, then reached in to clamp at two sites with artery forceps.

"She's all yours doctor," Van Dyke nodded to the specialist. He had managed to keep the patient from bleeding out on the table, but her ordeal was far from over, and there were no guarantees that she would survive the OR, let alone the night.

"All right then, let's get her up to the theatre for definitive repair," Dr. Kasey suggested briskly.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

Jim sat on one of the wooden pews, alone in the hospital's chapel. His head rested on his forearms, crossed over the back of the pew in front. When he was growing up, the Brass family never attended church services except on religious holidays. When they did, it was at a Presbyterian church, the denomination his mother had been raised in.

As a child, Jim had enjoyed the smells of wood polish, and candles, and the sounds of the choir. He had accepted, without thinking about it too deeply, that there was God who had created man and the universe, and Jesus, who had died so he could go to heaven one day. But the words of the biblical passages were just words to him, a story not much different than any of the ones his mother would read to him at bedtime.

When he had gotten older, and was in his teens, he had resisted accompanying her even for those few days a year; because he was trying to assert his independence, because church wasn't _cool_, and because he had come to understand that he no longer blithely accepted a religious perspective of the world. By the time he was an adult, and had come face to face with some of the horrors life had to offer, Jim had decided that faith was just a nice coping mechanism for those who found comfort in it.

Sitting here now though, knowing Cecilia was in surgery, her life in danger, Jim _wanted_ to believe. He wanted to think that somewhere there was an omnipotent being who would not only hear his prayers, but who had the power to _answer_ them. To believe that as bleak as things might look, there would be a miracle. Surely, if anyone was deserving of divine intervention, Cecilia was.

Dr. Van Dyke had washed up and changed and then come out of the exam room to speak with him, while Cecilia had been taken up the OR, under the care now of Dr. Kasey. He had explained the emergency thoracotomy to Jim, who had only understood bits and pieces, but who had nodded as though he was absorbing all of the details.

Dr. Van Dyke had been sympathetic but no nonsense. Cecilia had suffered penetrating neck trauma as a result of the gunshot wound. He had told Jim and Agent Fontaine that vascular trauma was usually present in twenty-five percent of penetrating neck injuries. In some studies, mortality rates approached fifty percent. Jim had clung to those numbers. Fifty-fifty. That didn't sound as bad as he might have imagined. There was a good chance that Cecilia would pull through. She was in good health otherwise, and had received prompt medical attention.

The physician had continued though, and each new bit of information had eroded Jim's hopes. Injuries to the great vessels and pulmonary hila had a somewhat higher mortality rate. And when cardiac arrest occured at the scene, as had happened in Cecilia's case, the chances of survival decreased again. The reality was that she had suffered significant injury to vital structures of the neck, as clinically manifested by the active external hemorrhage from the wound site. The hemorrhage had been a result of arterial vascular injury.

Pointing to his own chest, the physician had told the two men that the subclavian artery was a major artery, located below the clavicle, or collarbone, supplying blood to the head and arms. The left sulbclavian artery, the portion affected in Cecilia's case, extended directly from the arch of the aorta.

Jim had tried to keep up with the explanations and the medical terms. Even more telling than the physician's words though had been the truth in the man's blue-green eyes. It was a very real possibility that despite his heroic intervention, Cecilia might die.

Dr. Van Dyke had explained that in few other regions of the body were there so many vital structures located in so small a volume. What it came down to was that penetrating injuries of the subclavian artery were associated with high morbidity and mortality. Unstable vital signs upon presentation, and wounds resulting from gunshot injuries, greatly increased mortality.

Dr. Van Dyke admitted that the preferred course of action would have been to move Cecilia immediately to an operating theatre where optimal surgical expertise and facilities would increase the chances of success. However, because she had been in cardiac arrest, they had been unable to wait, and an emergency thoracotomy had been his only recourse.

The thoracotomy had extended her life long enough that the cardiothoracic surgeon could now seek to repair the damaged artery. It had given her a chance to survive long enough to be brought to surgery. But that was all. Dr. Van Dyke had excused himself then, promising that Dr. Kasey would speak with them later, following surgery.

Fontaine had brought the wound on the back of the detective's head to Megan Joyce's attention, and she had insisted on having Jim seen by one of the interns. The doctor had informed him that the detective's loss of consciousness following the blow indicated a concussion, and suggested an x-ray, but Jim had shrugged dismissively. He had eventually acquiesced to allowing the man to wash the area and administer several stitches under the nurse's watchful eye.

Brass and Fontaine had retreated to a waiting room, to sit watch until Cecilia was out of the OR. Fontaine had tried to occupy the detective's mind by asking about what had occured at Sturney's, beginning with how Brass had discovered the serial killer's identity. But Jim was both unwilling to be distracted and unable to focus on retelling the events that had preceded the shooting.

Finally, Jim had expressed a desire to find the chapel, and Fontaine had remained in the waiting room, allowing him his privacy.

Clumsily, Jim tried to form the words of a prayer in his head, but everything he could come up with seemed so stilted. He finally satisfied himself with closing his eyes and picturing Cecilia vibrant and alive, curled with him on the leather couch, listening to the secrets of his past and the dreams for his future. He could _feel _her in his arms, _hear_ the dulcet tones of her voice, and held tight the memory of her incredible beauty and kindness. Jim tried to believe that as long as he held her soul this way in his heart, he could hold her body on earth.

He heard the door open, and the soft shuffle of footsteps on the floor. Another man or woman, seeking mercy for their loved one, Brass thought achingly. Then a weight settled on the pew beside him.

Jim opened his eyes, startled to see Gil Grissom. The scientist looked back at him, his blue eyes veiled. Gil didn't say anything initially, and the two men just sat together in the quiet and solitude.

Eventually, Grissom spoke. "I understand Dr. Kasey is one of the best cardiothoracic surgeons in the state." He watched as the detective nodded dully. Gil shifted on the hard, wooden bench. He had been surprised when Agent Fontaine had told him where Brass had gone. Gil hadn't thought that the cop was the religious kind. He knew though, how in times of crisis, people often sought miracles and put their faith in something they might ordinarily have scorned.

Cecilia Laval's condition was critical, Gil knew. As he sat there next to Jim Brass, he fought back feelings of guilt. When they had finally learned what had happened at Sturney's...who it was who had been killed, and who had been seriously injured...relief had flooded over the criminalist. It had been swift and intense, shifting before long to concern for the writer, but his initial reaction had almost been one of gratitude. He was grateful hat it hadn't been either Catherine Willows or Jim Brass who had died at the hands of the serial killer, or whose survival was precarious.

Not that he was not affected to learn that Cecilia had been shot and critically wounded. Gil had come to like and respect the writer during her time at the lab. He could see that Cecilia and Catherine had developed a real friendship. And he had watched the positive changes in the detective as the other man had pursued a romantic relationship with the novelist. Gil understood that Brass was hurting...terribly. He wanted to do something to ease his friend's pain; to comfort him. But he wasn't sure how to do that.

Brass looked ten years older, Gil thought. The lines that etched his face had deepened, and the skin and flesh itself seemed to sag against the underlying bone and muscle. The detective's dark eyes were haunted. With fear. With regret. With guilt. With an undeniable pain that shone in their depths.

That was the problem with loving people, Gil knew. With letting them close to you. It was true, they could bring you inordinate happiness and give your life an added dimension...a meaning that it might otherwise lack. But at what cost? Too often, those you loved would leave you. Suddenly and without warning. Gil had first learned that truth at the age of nine, when his father had laid down on the sofa for a nap, and never woke up again. The sense of loss and desertion had never entirely left him.

In the course of his profession, that truth was hammered home to the scientist again and again. One moment things were wonderful, you were sharing your life with another person, giving and receiving love...and then all of that could change, often inexplicably and in seconds. A brain aneurysm. A motor vehicle accident. A heart attack. Random violence. No one was safe. And then the grieving were left bereft and alone.

_How would it affect Jim Brass if Cecilia Laval died? _Gil wondered to himself. What would having loved her end up costing the detective, if he were to lose her now? Jim looked...shattered. What would Brass' life be like if Cecilia didn't make it? Would he face a lifetime of regret and self-castigation? How long before he would be able to find happiness and take pleasure from life again?

Even if the detective's life prior to Cecilia hadn't been perfect...even if there had been times when Gil would hear the sarcasm or the flippancy in the other man's voice and wonder if they masked an emptiness or dissatisfaction...Brass had been getting along okay. Maybe there hadn't been any incredible highs, but there certainly hadn't been such an incredible low either. Jim had a full career and he had people he counted as friends. Maybe Jim Brass hadn't been exactly _happy _before he met Cecilia. But how _unhappy _would he be in the years to come, if he lost her?

Gil had no words of wisdom. No faith that everything would be all right. He didn't know how to communicate to the detective that Brass' fear and sorrow were shared now, and that his friend's pain was his own. Gil simply sat silently on the pew next to the detective, sharing his vigil. While somewhere in an operating theatre on a floor above them, it wasn't just one life, but _two_, the criminalist realized glancing sideways at Jim, that hung in the balance.


	57. Chapter 57

_Thank you for sticking with this story. This was a weird chapter to write, after watching last night's CSI episode. I won't say any more than that, in case anyone hasn't watched it yet. Cathy._

Chapter 57

Art Fontaine jotted notes on a pad while Jim Brass sat in a chair across from him, recounting in a dull monotone everything that had progressed from the time Sheriff Mobley had suspended the detective, until the shootings at Sturney's. The agent was impressed with Brass' ingenuity, from his borrowing his neighbour's car to enable him to slip out undetected by the surveillance team, to his purchase of a fake badge in order to get staff at the pet shop to speak with him.

Fontaine was mildly irritated that Brass had kept two of the boxes of papers that had belonged to Beth Marchison, rather than turning them over to those actively involved in the investigation. But he could understand the other man's reasoning. And he had to wonder whether anyone else would have caught the similarity between a clerk's signature on a nine year old sales receipt, and the writing of a serial killer.

Sturney hadn't even tried to deny that he was responsible for the deaths of several women and three police officers. Listening to the detective explain Sturney's warped reasoning and justification for the killer's heinous acts, Fontaine realized that secretly he was pleased that Dean Sturney was dead. Now none of those involved in the investigation would need to waste additional years preparing for a trial that would suck huge sums of money from the system, and become a media circus that would only add to the pain of the families mourning loved ones. There was no chance of the serial killer getting off on a technicality. No one else would ever have to suffer at the hands of the madman. It was over.

Or it would be, soon, Fontaine knew. One way or another. When Brass had returned from the hospital's chapel, accompanied by Gil Grissom, the detective had seemed different. There was a calm resignation about him. The unbridled energy, the need to physically _do _something, seemed to have subsided. Brass' movements were slow now. He looked exhausted. Only his eyes, shining brightly in his waxen features, evidenced his worry and heartache.

Without prompting, the detective had begun to give his statement. He sat stiffly in the vinyl covered chair, hands on his knees, his dark eyes fixed solemnly on the agent. Occasionally his gaze would wander to the doorway of the waiting room, watching for the messenger who would bring them word on Cecilia, and Brass' words would falter for a moment. There was a mixture of both hopefulness and dread in that look, that made Fontaine ache for the other man.

Gil Grissom sat at a bank of chairs against the far wall, the only other occupant of the room. He waited quietly, his blue eyes watchful, as Jim Brass related the series of events that had brought them here. Other than a brief smile, when the detective spoke about borrowing his neighbour's car, first to run out to Laughlin to question the elderly neighbour of Elliott Keeth, and later to slip out to Sturney's, the scientist's face was impassive. Fontaine had observed a strange detachment in Grissom from their first meeting. He assumed the criminalist was there now to lend moral support to the detective, but there was a distance, both emotional and physical, that Fontaine found striking.

Before Jim Brass had headed down to the chapel earlier, Fontaine had asked him about who Cecilia's next-of-kin might be. It was imperative that her family be notified of her accident. The detective had told him that Cecilia's parents were living in Pennsylvania, but he didn't have their contact information. A quick call to O'Reilly, still at the Prospect Street scene, and an ensuing search by officers there, had not turned up a purse or wallet that might help them.

The detective had finally suggested getting in touch with Janice Kellerman, the wife of Las Vegas' mayor, who was friends with the writer's literary agent. Fontaine had called the Sheriff and asked him to do so. While Brass was in the chapel, Mobley had called back. Janice Kellerman had been unable to reach Sally Long, Cecilia's agent, but she had left a message on her answering machine. It was unlikely that anyone would be able to reach Cecilia's family until morning. Fontaine felt better about bringing the detective to the hospital. Someone should be there for the novelist.

Brass had finished chronicling events, and the three men sat silently, while the black hands of the plain, utilitarian clock on the wall continued their sweep. Finally, a middle-aged nurse with a wide lock of silver in her dark hair, came to stand in the doorway of the room. The detective sprang to his feet.

Jim's heart thumped painfully against his chest. He tried to read the woman's tired features, to glean a sense of what kind of news she might have for them, but his normally adept skills at reading people failed him. Jim was is agony, waiting for her to speak.

"The surgery has been completed," she announced matter-of-factly. "Ms. Laval has been taken to the ICU. Dr. Kasey will come and speak to you shortly."

"I want to see Cecilia," Jim said huskily.

The nurse shook her head. "They're still monitoring her while the anaesthesia wears off," she explained.

"How is...did everything go okay?" Brass asked, his voice catching.

"I'll have to let Dr. Kasey answer your questions," the nurse insisted. She read his despair and her tone softened. "She should be here momentarily."

"Thank you," Jim told her. Once she had left, he began to pace the room. _Cecilia had pulled through the surgery! _The nurse had told him that they were monitoring Cecilia. That meant that she was still alive. Surely that was a good sign, if she had survived so far. It was just a matter of time now, time for her to heal and regain her strength. He clung to the hope.

As the nurse had promised, Dr. Eileen Kasey appeared no more than five minutes later. She entered the waiting room and came towards the men. Fontaine and Grissom stood at her arrival, and Brass moved past them, closing the distance between himself and the surgeon.

"I'm Dr. Kasey," she introduced herself with a brief smile. "Are any of you family of the patient?"

There was a moment's silence and then Jim cleared his throat. "Cecilia's family is in Pennsylvania. We're working on reaching them. I'm Jim Brass. Dectective Brass. I'm...she's my..." he floundered for words.

Dr. Kasey assessed the sick worry in his eyes. There was dried blood on the man's white shirt. Possibly the woman's. The surgeon wondered if the detective was even aware of it. During the course of the surgery she had learned a brief history of the patient. Apparantly she had been shot while police were trying to take a serial killer into custody. The woman wasn't a police officer, from what Eileen had gathered, but an innocent bystander. She had heard that the killer had in turn been shot dead by another officer.

Dr. Kasey gauged that Detective Brass had been at the scene of the shooting, and that his concern for Cecilia Laval extended way beyond the professional. In the abscence of a true family member, she decided to allow the policeman to adopt the role for now. Clearly, he was desperate to do so, and the surgeon assumed the woman was probably his girlfriend.

"Ms. Laval's situation is very serious," Dr. Kasey began. "She remains in critical condition. Did someone explain to you why it was necessary for Dr. Van Dyke to do the emergency thoracotomy, and what that involved?"

"Yeah," Brass nodded.

"I fully support Dr. Van Dyke's decision, without the thoracotomy Ms. Laval would have died. There were clear signs of vascular trauma; a pulse deficit and persistent hemmorhage. But conditions in the ER are not as ideal as those of an operating room, of course. The preferred course of action, had the patient been stable and not in danger of exsanguinating, would have been to get her upstairs for angiography, an x-ray of the blood vessels, to assess the damage.

"Penetrating subclavian arterial injuries are relatively uncommon and often difficult to treat. My first choice for repair would have been to do a stented graph. In that scenario a polytetrafluoroethylene graft is sutured over a balloon-expandable stent. The advantage to this type of surgery would have been that it is only minimally invasive. Remote access can be gained through one of the brachial arteries in the upper arm.

"With that technique, we can try to stop hemmorhaging, and repair damage without having to do direct surgical repair of the vessels. There is an added element of difficulty with direct surgical repair because of the exposure required and the surrounding structures which are traumatized when we have to open a patient up. As necessary as the thoracotomy was, it carries its own risks and complications."

Dr. Kasey watched the detective's eyes shift to the man with salt and pepper hair. The other man gave an almost imperceptible nod. She had a sense that the second man had some understanding of anatomy, and perhaps medical jargon and techniques, and that the detective's silent communication was to determine that the silver-haired man understood fully what she was saying and would clarify later if necessary.

"Since the chest was already opened, I did a manual repair of the subclavian artery with suturing. There were other, smaller vessels that sustained damage during the thoracotomy that needed to be repaired as well. The surgery was as successful as I might have hoped under the circumstances," the surgeon said guardedly, "but even following a successful vascular repair, there are other factors such as brachial plexus injuries, pulmonary contusions, and bony fractures which add to morbidity."

"What does that mean exactly?" Brass queried, his brows knitting together.

"The brachial plexus is a system of nerves that transmits signals from the spine to the shoulder, arm and hand. Brachial plexus injuries are caused by damage to those nerves, and symptoms may present as paralysis of the arm, lack of muscle control in the arm, hand or wrist, or a lack of sensation in the arm or hand.

"Pulmonary contusion is an injury to lung larenchyma which can lead to respiratory distress. Even if an injury was not sustained during the original trauma, there is a chance is could result from the invasiveness of the surgery.

"And of course there is an increased risk of infection, since such a large area of internal organs was exposed. Dr. Van Dyke did a textbook perfect thoracotomy, and it was the only option in this case. I just want you to understand however that while it was a literal life-saving technique, it means that the actual underlying cause, the damaged artery, was consequently more difficult to repair."

"I understand," Jim said quietly.

"I repaired the subclavian first, and that went well. There were some partial lacerations of other internal veins that I closed primarily with vein patches. That will help prevent subsequent stenosis, a potential narrowing of one of the valves of the heart. Because it was a high velocity, penetrating wound, the bullet produced a surrounding area of contusion that was thrombogenic in nature. That means there was the formation of a clot inside a blood vessel, obstructing the flow of blood to the circulatory system.

"I had to resect using vein grafts from the saphenous. Saphenous veins are principal veins of the leg. The vein is used as a conduit for coronary artery bypass grafting. That part of the surgery went very well.

"All things considered, the bullet's path was probably the least destructive we could have hoped for. But that's not to negate the severity of the existing damage."

The surgeon continued. "Injury to major neck vessels is the largest cause of mortality from penetrating neck injury. While repairing the artery we also had to attempt to preserve blood flow to the brain. I was fortunate to be assisted by Dr. Whang, our vascular surgeon on staff.

"I closed any mucosal lacerations with absorbing sutures. There were a couple of small, cartilaginous fractures that were fixed with wire. The patient received blood transfusions to replace the loss. There was no time to type, so she received O Rhesus negative. Five units."

"Uh, I think that _is _her blood type," Jim inserted. "She mentioned one time about being a universal donor."

Dr. Kasey inclined her head and nodded. "One of the things we'll be watching for now is PNP...phrenic nerve paralysis. Bascially, the phrenic nerve is responsible for the act of breathing. Sepsis is another possible complication. Sepsis is caused by an acute infection of the bloodstream, due to the prescence of toxin-producing bacteria.

"At this stage there is no evidence of neurological compromise, but we'll be continuing to monitor. We'll also be repeating angiography to ensure intact vascular repair."

"To be honest," Brass told her, his gaze frank, "some of that I get and some of it I'm not too sure of. What I need to know Doctor is...will she be okay? Is Cecilia going to make it?"

Dr. Kasey stared back at him. She knew the the odds of the patient not surviving the post operative period of the next few days could vary between thirty to eighty percent. She didn't like to quote statistics though. She had lost patients to what was routine surgery with seemingly no complications and an overwhelming statistical chance of complete recovery. Conversely, she had seen patients who she had not expected to survive even an hour following emergency surgery walk out of the hospital a week or two later with no lasting ill effects and who went on to live normal lives afterwards.

She had learned from incredible highs and lows that it was impossible to predict a patient's outcome, and she didn't like to give loved ones either a false sense of hope or to devestate them and make them lose faith by announcing a dire prognosis. Still...she knew that she owed the detective some kind of answer to what was a natural, valid question.

"I can't say either way," she admitted. "She has alot of fighting to do still. She's in the right place and we've got good people and good equipment here."

"I don't want cost to be an issue," Brass remarked passionately. "I don't know if she has insurance, or what your policies here are, but I want her to have the very _best_ of everything. I want you to run every test you think can help you make decisions about her care. And I want every specialist you need to assist with her recovery. She gets the best medications and whatever amount and variety you feel you need to prescribe. I want to her to have every chance to get better, and I don't want a single person involved in Cecilia's recovery and stay to ever hesitate even a moment before ordering something they think she needs.

"I'll sign whatever you want, assuming full financial responsibility, and if you need some kind of confirmation from the bank regarding my ability to pay, then you'll have it. I don't want her to go without a _single _thing. And I want only the very best." Jim stood with his feet slightly apart, his arms straight at his sides, his fists clenched. His chin jutted determinedly.

"Certainly," Dr. Kasey replied.

"Can I see her now?" the detective asked.

The ICU was supposed to be restricted to family, but Eileen Kasey knew that if she was laying in a hospital, in critical condition, she wouldn't like to imagine herself alone. Whether or not she was conscious and aware. As much as she had devoted her life to science, Dr. Kasey could not discount the idea that there were things even the most well-educated and experienced men and women in her profession did not fully understand when it came to the power of the mind and heart to heal.

Even in the most unresponsive patient, where it seemed that brain activity was at a minimum, and where the textbooks and medical papers assured her a patient could not process sensory information, there had been times where she had seen things that science could not explain. It wasn't going to hurt her patient to have a single visitor sit quietly at her bedside. And if there was even the slightest chance it could help...Eileen Kasey could think of no good reason to forbid it.

"Not just yet," she replied. "I'll send someone to get you in half an hour or so though. You have to understand that she won't be responsive. And there will be alot of tubes and monitors, so be prepared. Also, there was some swelling of the neck and facial areas, which will have subsided somewhat, but it could alter her appearance."

_Half an hour. _Jim knew it would seem an eternity. He wanted to be with Cecilia _now. _She was in ICU in critical condition. For the time being, she was alive. There were no guarantees, however, of what another half hour might bring. He agonized over that reality.

CSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSI

_The man raised his arm then, and the woman's head came up. Where her eyes had been, were dark sockets, crawling with fat, white maggots. More of them wriggled through her nostrils, spilling out onto the pavement, and Jim's lips curled in disgust. When she opened her mouth, further clumps of larvae tumbled from the cavern within. Like the rustle of old parchment, lips as dry as dust formed around whispered words._

_'And the wicked go free...'_

_It was Cecilia's voice this time. Riddled with pain and hopelessness, but still undeniably hers. It was Cecilia's once luxuriant, dark hair that framed an olive complexioned visage made unidentifiable by the squirming masses of infant blowflies. It was Cecilia's battered and desecrated body that splayed out behind the killer, and which had been dragged ignobly across the dirty tarmac._

_Jim had fallen to his knees, his arms outstretched beseechingly, trying to will away the complete and utter horror of the moment before his psyche imploded. Surely someone had just cut the heart from his chest, and his own body must be on the verge of collapsing in its final death throes, because no man could endure this kind of pain and live to rise from it. The keening that exploded from his throat rang with loss and grief. With rage and guilt._

_He had failed her._

"Jim. Jim, wake up."

He heard the woman's soft voice, winging across the chasm of his subconscious, gently pulling him from the horror-filled landscape of his dreams. He hovered for a moment between sleep and waking.

_Cecilia!_

Jim's lids blinked heavily, as the detective raised his head from where it had rested on his crossed arms. For a second his heart soared, as he wondered if it had all just been a terrible nightmare. He would wake now in his own bed, with Cecilia snuggled beside him. But as his eyes adjusted to the artificial light, and he heard the soft whooshing of machinery, and drew into his nostrils the pungent medicinal smell, Jim's hopes were dashed.

His body, which had stiffened in sleep, protested now as Brass straightened in the chair. At some point before dawn, after he had lain his head against the side of the bed in prayer, clasping one of Cecilia's cool hands in his own, emotional exhaustion had claimed him.

It was not Cecilia's voice then that had brought him out of his slumber. Rubbing a hand tiredly across his face, feeling the grizzled stubble on his cheeks, Jim noticed for the first time the reddish brown stains that stiffened the fabric of his white shirt. _Cecilia's blood._

Who then, had woken him? Jim shifted in his seat, and saw Catherine Willows standing just an arm's length away.

Once she had finished with O'Reilly, with Internal Affairs, and with Sophia Curtis and Warrick who had been sent to collect evidence of what had transpired at Dean Sturney's residence, Catherine had gone home to shower. To wash the ugliness of the night from her pores.

The criminalist had gone from there to the hospital, driving through the still darkened city streets, while her stomache spasmed and a second wave of shock manifested in the shaking of her hands on the wheel. She had managed to get hold of Agent Fontaine on his cell phone. All he could tell her was that Cecilia was out of surgery, but still critical and under observation in the ICU.

Catherine had arrived as Fontaine and Grissom were leaving. Both men were clearly preoccupied and had little to say to her, though both had expressed gratitude that Catherine was unharmed. Gil had given her a searching look that she hadn't been able to read. She had learned that Jim was in the ICU with Cecilia, and had gone there.

They hadn't let her in, because visitation was limited. Catherine had asked for an update on Cecilia and had been told nothing more than what she had heard from Fontaine. She had stood for a while, looking through the glass window into the room beyond. She could see Jim's back, and the bottom portion of Cecilia's bed. Eventually, the criminalist had settled onto a chair outside the unit, battling back the guilt, while frenetic images of those last moments at Sturney's flashed across her inner eye.

She had heard Jim moaning in his sleep, and then he was making strangled gasps and short, heart-rending cries. The nurses were at their station, initiating a shift change. Catherine had slipped unseen into the ICU, seeking to wake the detective and to put an end to his nocturnal torment.

She stood there now, looking back at Jim Brass. It seemed to her that he had aged overnight. Her sapphire gaze moved to the still, pale form on the bed, her heart constricting as she observed the tubes that entered Cecilia's body at various points, delivering antibiotics and fluids, draining her bladder and assisting her breathing. Catherine struggled against the nausea.

When Catherine looked at Jim again, she realized that she didn't know what to say to him. They stared at one another. Catherine felt her eyes well with tears. She could see his pain...could feel it, heavy in the air. She had only wanted to help him. Would he blame her, for what had happened to Cecilia? _How could he not? _Catherine blamed herself. She _never_ should have allowed the writer to go with her.

Even killing Sturney, even ensuring that he had not been able to fire a second round, was not atonement enough, Catherine knew. Even if that quick action might have saved a second bullet from ending Cecilia's life then and there, or prevented Jim from being shot himself.

"Jim," Catherine whispered, her throat tight, "I'm so, so sorry..."

The detective couldn't hold her gaze, she saw. Couldn't say the words that she was desperate to hear. That he didn't blame her. That nothing had changed between them.

When Jim could no longer look at her, when he glanced away, over her shoulder and at an imaginary point of interest on the far wall, lips pressed in an unyielding line, the tears squeezed out from the corners of Catherine's eyes and made salty rivulets down her perfectly sculpted cheeks.


End file.
